Here’s how I knew that the spa was too high class for me: as I was settling into the women’s locker room, I read their advertisement for a new spa offering called the “Himalayan Serenity Facial” and thought, “A yeti’s going to do what to me now?” Gawd, Mona. Mythic mountain creature splooge jokes? What are you? 24?
Another disconcerting roadblock occurred when I wasn’t sure how naked I was supposed to be for my massage. I was given a fleece robe and slippers but no further instructions. This was the first time I had a massage performed and I was kicking myself for not googling this before I had to choose skivvies or no skivvies.
I hate being in situations where I’m afraid to ask these important questions, and I’m stuck calculating how much to strip off or what naked-clothes combo would keep me from looking like a perv. If I went in completely naked under my robe,everyone in the pre-pampering lounge would cry out, “HALP! Unsolicited nudity! Take this woman and her uncouth cooch!” And if I did keep my clothes on underneath the robe, I would hear, “Um, lady, the robe is supposed to cover your body, not act as a cape.” Obviously, I fail at spa. But I’m all flying colors in Target 101!
I was welcomed into a dimly lit room where I first sat on a chair and the masseuse performed a series of exfoliation and massage on my oafish feet and stumpy legs. As I moved onto the massage table and tucked myself under a warm blanket, I was immediately glad that I hadn’t selected a man to slough my scaly skin. I get uncomfortable when people even stand too close to me at the grocery store; I wouldn’t be able to relax around some stranger’s peen while I was just in my skivvies.
The lady waved her hands over my face and whispered, “Just inhale the scent of orange and vanilla and journey to your quiet space.” And even though I felt like I was breathing in an orange creamsicle and the soothing instructions were a little too hippie for me, I did succumb to the relaxing harp music and aromatherapy whiffs and experienced the most phenomenal body massage. After an hour of working on my muscles, I felt like my body had been replaced with a softer, moisturized version. I was thinking why I had never done this before and then I remembered how much I like paying my mortgage on time and feeding my child more than graham crackers and cheese.
Later that night, Mike and I had dinner at the Space Needle. There were notes littered along the window and as the restaurant rotated, I read these paper scraps. Most of them were written in crayon on torn bits from the kids menus. The notes were dull I pulled out my tiny notepad and scrawled, “My 25th birthday is today! What are you celebrating?”
While I feasted on my lobster tail, I wondered what kinds of answers my question would pull. It was more engaging than the crayola one-liners that said, “Hi! Wur U From?” I worried that those kids might have plucked my note and added, “I pooped today. Real big poop.” But after we had paid for our meal, the note had made itself back to our table. Under my celebration inquiry, four replies read:
And then there was my instant favorite:
“Bar mitzvah! Emphasis on the ‘bar.’ ”