Spa Angst

My husband gave me a "day of beauty" at a spa one year for my birthday. The boys had just turned 2 years old and I suppose he thought I could use a soothing experience at this time in my life. The funny thing was that he knew how much I hated spas as well as the word soothing. I told him that in essence he gave me the gift of angst for my birthday. Unfortunately, this was non-refundable so I had to suck it up and schedule my 7 hour appointment.

The ordeal consisted of an hour of massage, an hour-long facial, 1 hour of whirlpool baths and salt scrubs, a spa manicure and pedicure, haircut, make-up session and spa lunch. I think I was most concerned about the "spa" lunch and haircut. I'm a picky eater and I knew I would need all my energy to get through this unscathed, and "spa" lunch didn't exactly sound satisfying. I was immensely relieved to see that one of the choices was a chicken caesar salad (whew, one bullet successfully dodged). Then, the thought of having a total stranger cut my hair instead of my beloved, long-time hairdresser, Scott, terrified me. In retrospect, this fear does seem a little silly since back then my hair was long and all one length, and a monkey probably could have cut it somewhat ok (no offense Scott, you always cut it brilliantly!).

The massage was first. A female masseuse came out to meet me and escort me into the massage room. Did I mention she weighed at least 400 pounds, conservatively speaking? I would have no problem with this at all, except that she proceeded to put all her weight into massaging me. As she pressed on my back as if we were competitively sumo wrestling, I gasped for air and asked her if it was possible to go a little lighter. Apparently for her, it wasn't possible. After blacking out while she was giving me a "face massage", I awoke to realize it was time for my whirlpool baths and sea salt scrub. The bath was nice enough and almost enjoyable. The sea salt scrub sucked. Even though I had obediently followed their preliminary instructions and did not shave for 24 hours, I realized they may have meant 24 days because it burned like crazy. I ran to sit under some God forsaken waterfall to wash the acid-like substance off.

I was about to make a break for it, when the aesthetician came to get me for my facial. It was a lengthy affair that ended with a broken blood vessel on my face that hadn't been there prior to all of this. I was too weak to even mention it, as I quietly ate my spa lunch watching one of those ridiculous little Buddhist water and rock gardens piddle away next to me. The spa manicure and pedicure was painless, though I got nothing out of resting my feet on warm, colored stones (the spa part of this, I guess) and began pining for the "Kim's Nail" salon that I had been going to for years. The girl that cut my hair looked to be about twelve but was harmless enough. I found myself asking the make-up artist (and I use that title loosely) if I really need to wear foundation, because I had refused to up until that moment. She responded by looking at me as if I were an alien and saying "My God, yes you need it!". I took the insult well, knowing that she was my last stop before I ran screaming from this place looking like a bad Tammy Faye Baker clone.

Once home, the angst of the last 7 hours seemed to melt away (along with all the foundation on my face) when I realized that while I was gone Mike had taught the kids to say "pretty mommy" upon my arrival. It was a very sweet gesture. Almost as sweet as giving me jewelry and shopping gift certificates for all of my future birthday presents.