When I arrived at the spa, the front desk receptionist instructed me to go upstairs and the Spa Guide would greet me. A Spa Guide! Not a Spa-Wikipedia-Google-This-On-Your-Own-Lady-Who-Normally-Would-Be-A-Work-At-This-Time. The woman had a sweet voice and led me to the women’s room where she handed me some slippers and when she reached for a robe, she scanned my body and asked, “A medium?” A MEDIUM! The closest I’ve been to a medium is watching the TV show Medium.
After I had stowed my belongings and dressed into my robe–a large, my hips don’t lie–and slippers, I sank into a rich leather chair and read the most ridiculous magazine I could find: a Cosmo with 60 NEW SEX TIPS. I wish they had titled it, “60 STUPID SEX TIPS.” No Cosmopolitan writer, do not advise women to lick their partners’ eyelids and then BLOW ON THE SALIVA. Nope! Not doing that, ever.
My masseuse introduced herself while I was making horrified faces at a piece of paper. I was nervous because I wasn’t prepared with the biggest massage question: NUDE or NOT NUDE. I’m okay with nudity but I didn’t want to leave a $50 tip because someone was not at all okay with my nudie-nudity. Sorry you saw that! Here’s some money to erase that image!
It was very professional. Nudity didn’t matter because I was covered in thin blankets while I rested on a heated massage table. And it was glorious. After an hour of journeying to my quiet place, I felt like jelly. A jar of jelly nestled in a hammock on an ocean liner. There were some moments when I wished that my husband could replicate the phenomenal moves and not just resort to the most lazy massage tactic: the karate chop.
Next was my facial and spa scalp treatment. A sweet chatty woman surveyed my face, told me that my skin had problems. Yes! I know this! My eyes were closed as she applied creams and lotions. There was steam and heat. We talked about typical lady issues: weight loss, Facebook stupidities, husbands. After an hour, she wrapped my hair in a towel, gave me some samples of moisturizer and serums.
I continued into the hot rocks sauna, stepping into the thermal room, siting on the wooden benches and then exiting before the world started spinning.
I left feeling completely recharged and pampered. Ready to continue the day’s celebration with my favorite person: me!
When I am old and my brain is melting into mushy grey matter and I am reduced to a shriveled shell of a woman, heaving over a walker with tennis balls to protect the feet, I want this day to be one of the last memories to go. I want to relive the joy of a heat wrapping my body, the layers of lotions and serums covering my face, the appearance of a sweet mango smoothie upon my request. I want this memory to be engraved in the recess of my brain, the part that isn’t atrophied or swallowed up by what memories are left behind and wrestling each other for space, likely jokes about farts and butts and topics no spa guide would ever mention.