I didn’t get my first massage until I was over 60. I didn’t think the concept of a massage sounded very masculine or comfortable, and I was particularly self-conscious about my feet—my hammer toe, my ugly bunion and my ridiculously high arches.
As a birthday gift, my wife paid for my first massage with a therapist named Lorraine. It was heaven at first touch. My aches and pains were removed almost instantly; I may have even fallen asleep. Still, my golden rule was “don’t you dare touch my feet.”
It was several months before I allowed her to touch my feet accompanied by Mozart’s overture to the Magic Flute. That was the turning point for me.
Now, I get a massage every week—with a special emphasis on rubbing my weary feet.
My advice as you age: Find yourself a Lorraine, and let her rub your feet.