I did it. I went to the spa. I struggled with when and how. I hemmed and hawed. And then I was like:
You obnoxious brat. Just do it. You won, it’s free. Go.
Ok, actually it went a little more like this:
Have you booked your spa day?
No, I’m still deciding.
One night a few days later:
Did’ja book the spa thing yet?
Are you going to?
I’ll do it tomorrow
A week later:
Are you going to?
A couple days later:
Did’ja book it yet?
Are you going to?
Now. Book it now.
But I don’t know how we’ll–
I said book it now.
5 minutes later:
I’m doing it.
3 minutes later:
I couldn’t find the phone book and Avery needed a diaper change.
You want me to call?
Amazing how a little procrastination can really take the joy out of something. Takes the niceness out of husbands too.
I always imagine having the luxury of going to the spa, or of going somewhere with black hair cutting ponchos and being offered lukewarm coffee while I get a cut I won’t like for at least a couple of weeks. Yet, I’ve had the opportunity (thanks, Mom) and not done it.
But I did it. I found the phone book. I don’t know about anyone else, but some days that’s enough for me to feel like I conquered the world – finding the phone book. Matching socks on the entire family? Domestic nirvana.
I managed to call Classical Concepts and make my appointment for spa services compliments of Belly Bar.
I had pored over their list of services one night and calculated the different combinations I could afford with the credit I won. It was delicious imagining the different scenarios. Of course in my mind there was no rush, there was no fretting over how Sean and the girls were. I was silky haired, fresh faced and relaxed. I tittered over light stories exchanged with the facialist, gracefully accepted compliments from the colorist on the healthy state of my hair, the woman at the front desk greeted me warmly.
However the pressure from Sean and the fact that I had waited until less than 36 hours before my biggest professional event of the year (which in Sean’s defense is the reason he rode me so hard to schedule it) left me completely stammering when the woman said,
“And what would you like to have done?”
“Well, I’d like, um, see I won, well actually I know it’s really late so I’ll just do whatever you can fit me in for.”
“Ok. Are you looking for spa or salon services?”
“Oh, right. Of course you need to know that. Ah, I’d like to get my hair colored and have a massage.”
“Do you want full head color, highlights, or is this a touch up?”
“Did you want full or partial?”
“Ok, and what did you want to schedule in the spa?”
“Elemental or hydrotherm?”
“Elemental, I think. What do you- “
“30, 60 or 90 minutes?”
Believe me when I say that as the “conversation” went on I exposed myself as a person who does not “use product” or “wear fragrance” and the end result was an appointment shoe horned in based on my desire to curtail further humiliation rather than on any logic regarding the girls, my life or my needs.
Luckily, after a slightly awkward and less than warm reception by the woman at the front desk, and the fact that my face was experiencing its first breakout in a year, and that my hair was not in fact healthy, I had a nice time.
The massage was lovely, though even alone in the room I managed to make myself feel as if I wasn’t cultured enough to be there. I disrobed and arranged myself on the table…
Is that water? Is there water on this table? Is this a water table?
And I totally hopped off the table, naked save my underwear with little pink scotty dogs (Classy Amanda, real classy. Note to self: if you are too embarassed to have someone see the print on your underwear maybe it’s not something you should wear. Ever.) to look. I lifed up the sheet-
“Ooh, is that sheepskin?”
Then peeled back the sheet and pressed the rubber.
“Ooh, it is water. It’s a waterbed massage table. Holy shit.”
Behold the water bed massage table.
And here’s where I sat to watch her work magic around my spotted face.
By the time I left my body was totally relaxed and hydrated with that earthy minty aroma unique to Aveda and my hair looked incredible. I had enough credit left over to leave the stylist and masseuse each a great ip and walked out with an $8 tube of chap stick and a tub of some sort of humectant pomade thing that I thought would remind me of my time at the spa. I’d share a picture but I just took three and, let’s just say that last night’s event took its toll on my face, and the gym and the skipped shower today have done nothing for my hair- though Sean did say this morning:
“Hey! Your hair still looks great. You know it’s a good cut if you have great looking bed head.”
I was touched and opted not to deliver a slam about how that sounded like something that Gavin, the gay roommate would say. And while it might seem that by typing that slam it’s as good as said, but then, this post was probably too long for him to read.