I made another visit to Chicago to see my daughter, son-in-law and grandson for the Christmas holiday, but waited until a few days after Christmas before flying there to avoid the crowds. We enjoyed a late Christmas celebration and one of my gifts was an hour long deep tissue massage at an up s c a l e spa in the area. O n the day of my appointment, my daughter Sydney went with me and opted for a facial while I had my massage. I get one about twice a year, so this wasn’t my first rodeo. I looked forward to it in the days leading up to it, hoping for a nice relaxing start to 2025.

The lady told me to undress to my comfort level and left the room. I got on the table facedown and waited until she returned. She asked me about any problems or issues I was having, and like most, I told her my back and shoulders. I also let her know I had osteoarthritis and experienced pain in my knees, especially since Alex and Sydney have three stories and I have to climb stairs. A few minutes later, she cracked her knuckles and went to work.

I was hoping to experience the “whole enchilada,” which was a deep tissue massage over the stressed and sore areas of my body. Instead, I received an entire different type of experience.

The massage therapist said she could really feel some tension in my back, and that I had lived “an active life.” I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, because I’m not very active. The next thing I know, she has her forearms flat down in the middle of my back, pressing down with her entire body weight. Then she stuck her elbows in the middle of my back and ran them from top to bottom.

I tensed up and knew it wasn’t a good sign. Plus, I hadn’t drank a ton of water like I was supposed to beforehand to refrain from soreness. That “whole enchilada” was costing me; not money, but my total movement.

The next day, I could barely move. My back was out and every muscle in my body ached. I felt like I’d ran a marathon but never finished. I started taking magnesium and an antiinflammatory, which helped, but didn’t relieve it entirely. Lifting my 29 pound grandson didn’t help, either, but I wasn’t going to tell him no because that’s how his Lala (grandma) rolls.

I found out that my son-in-law had thrown away the leftover ham but there was still some turkey left. I guess he didn’t want a repeat of me freezing the leftover ham and bringing it back in my suitcase. Instead, he asked if I could make him some turkey enchiladas. I did, but told him it wouldn’t be the “whole enchilada.”