Ecstasy of Pain

I had my spa day, today, and oh my goodness it was amazing.

When I called to book my services - a massage and a facial - the receptionist asked if I was okay with a male masseur. I said, "Sure," afraid that a negative answer would leave me unable to book my appointments ASAP. Plus, I reasoned, masseurs are just like doctors: they see bodies all the time, they're healers of a sort, and they don't view their clients like that.

Then I remembered that I don't have any male doctors because I'm uncomfortable with them poking around in places where they shouldn't be.

Oops. I decided to put my big girl panties on and deal with it in a mature and reasonable manner. This was made infinitely easier since my masseur, David, was a gay man who resembled nothing so much as a goateed Gorg from the late lamented show Fraggle Rock.

Seriously, he was huge. If not for the soft voice and the lisp, he would have made a great bouncer at a night club.

The massage involved some interesting conversations, mostly about what I could and could not tolerate and the state of my muscles.

David: What level of pressure do you like?

Me: Firm.

David: Is that too hard?

Me: Actually, you could press a little harder.

David: Huh.

And later...

David: Wow, you really weren't kidding when you said you had a lot of tension in your muscles.

Me: Nope. My office manager is a licensed massage therapist, and she's horrified at the state of my neck and back muscles.

David: (Exhaling loudly) I can see why.

Poor David was somewhat defeated by my knotted muscles, in fact. He confessed that he couldn't work out all the knots in one day ("and any massage therapist who tries that ought to be shot") because of the potential trauma to the muscles. But I am definitely looser. Sorer and looser. I am supposed to polish off a gallon of non-alcoholic fluid before I go to sleep tonight. I am halfway there. Time to get guzzling...

After my massage, I was escorted down the hall to where my facialist, Stephanie, awaited me. She looked more like a stereotypical spa employee. Actually, she looked like Halle Berry, haircut and all. And she did a killer job on my face, polishing and hydrating, and seruming, and exfoliating so that my face now glows like a halogen lightbulb.

My hair, following the facial, was another story entirely. I have had a facial once before, and my hair afterward was hilarious, sticking out in all directions. I was incredibly thankful for huge sunglasses and tinted car windows following that facial. I vowed to remember to take a hat with me next time I had a facial.

I broke that vow. I am an idiot.

I looked in the mirror as I was pulling on the fuzzy, warm chenille robe post-facial and realized that I was going to have to walk across Nordstrom with a slightly red face and hair that stuck out like a fright wig.

Mortification set in.

In the changing room, I formulated a plan: I would seek refuge in the restroom, wet my hair in the sink, and use some of the lovely hand towels they had there (terry cloth, no cheap paper towels in this establishment) to dry my hair, the way I do in the morning.

My plan worked pretty well, except my face was still red where it wasn't pasty-white or bruised-looking (under-eye circles, what?). There was nothing I could do about that. I made a bee-line for the exit after paying and leaving tips. I declined to buy the basketful of products that had been used on my face during the facial, although I really did want that $150 motorized face-polisher: power tools for the face? Hell, yes.

I then returned to my little apartment, and there I have stayed all day, relaxing, reading about George III's daughters and their extended family by way of Queen Victoria (it's an Anglophilia Extravaganza around here, lately), and looking forward to my next doctor's appointment.

Exciting, no?