Spa-stic
I enjoyed 90 minutes of sheer bliss yesterday in the lap of luxury. A massage in one of the city’s premiere spas…for an hour and a half with my husband….we relished, cherished and nourished. And after the 90 minutes were over, I couldn’t seem to wait to get the heck out of there. What is that??? There is a tea room of luxurious proportions and a changing room with listening pods to heighten my bliss...and I’m thinking “let’s go and get some veggie dogs!!!!!!” So what does this say about me? I used to have a golden retriever named Jesse who simply couldn’t wait to get to the other side of the street (knowing the park or the best hydrant was thattaway). When I cross the street unnecessarily prematurely, my husband accuses me of doing a “Jesse”. So…it would be safe to assume that is the reason I make a bee-line out of spas….to get on with things.
But here it is. Yet another confession. This time in caps. I FEEL LIKE A SPAZ IN SPAS. I am always fumbling with my robe sash, my flip-flops forever squeak and I perpetually lose my keycard. I ooh and aah over waterfalls, heartily huff the aromas of the teas and giggle when my feet are fondled. In short…I do not belong. My money (or moreover, my gift certificate) is as good as anyone else’s there, yet, I am a fish out of water…or, maybe a better fish analogy: a carp in a koi pond.
As I reread what I just wrote, I realize that the biggest distinction between myself and my spa-mates (other than my constant robe adjustment) comes down to the simple fact that I have not perfected the look of utter detached boredom. I could work on that, I suppose…but why bother? I think I’ll continue to rejoice in the treat that I afford myself twice a year…because it IS a treat for me.
Being more joyful in the moment…wherever that is (this side of the street, that side of the street, in a tea lounge or at a hot dog cart) shall remain my continuing mission.
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