Let me preface this by saying that I should not spa. When I do get a massage, I prefer the budget-friendly hole in the wall down the street, where your $60 buys you an hour-long spot on a table in a public room. It gets the kinks out with minimal fanfare, and off I go.
But last week was my birthday and I decided to treat myself to something a little more special. A real spa experience where I could lounge around after my massage, drink a chamomile tea, and read trashy magazines. I mean the Harvard Business Review.
Spas are like a trip to the Caribbean with kids. You anticipate how relaxing it will be. But the reality is that you spend 7 days smearing sunscreen on squirming little faces, cleaning sandy bums, and helping navigate menu options like a tired and grumpy waiter. By the end of it all, you’re more exhausted than when you arrived, and are somewhat anxious to get back home.
Same thing with spas. I go there with the best intentions, but often leave more stressed than when I came. All those women walking around naked. It’s like a perpetual car accident– you want to look away but my God there are naked people everywhere and it’s kind of hard not to look.
And those nondescript hallways with minimal signage…I always worry I’ll open the wrong door and end up in the lobby wearing nothing but my robe and a bungee key. And let’s not forget the age-old question about underwear – to wear or not to wear. Will my masseuse think I’m a pervert if I go commando? Am I showing how unrefined I am by wearing them?
5 comments
