where the hell have I been?

I mean, seriously.

Last Friday, I met up with my niece Katie -and about 15 other crazy chicks- for a "spa day". Now, honestly, I'm not really a 'spend the day at the spa' kinda girl but we'd all been invited to spend the afternoon together as part of Katie's pre-wedding festivities (in lieu of a bridal shower/bachelorette party), so how could I refuse? Having never gone to a spa (oh yeah, I was a spa virgin), I didn't really know what to expect... in fact, about 5 months ago, when we were given a list of different services we could try, I more or less closed my eyes and pointed to one -I mean, I don't know a Vichy Shower from a Seaweed Pack so, what the hell... eenie-meeny-miney-mo... I ended up getting a shoulder/back/neck massage along with a spa pedicure. oookay, fine, sounds safe enough, doesnt' it?

not so much.

please talk amongst yourselves whilst I make a valium cocktail with a chaser of prozac.

I gotta tell you that, while I love being hugged by my peeps and love snuggling with my kids, I'm not a thuper-dooper touchy feely person by nature and the idea of peeps I don't know touching me, weirds me out -I mean, it's not like I freak if I happen to bump into someone, but I'm just very concious of the whole 'personal space' concept that we learned way back in preschool, so, when I realized a perfect stranger was going to: a.) be touching me in a more intimate manner than oh, lets say, a handshake and 2.) I'd be nekkid from the waist up while they were doing that, not to mention c.) someone else would later be touching my FEET -eeeew, feeeet! I was a tad put off so, needless to say, I spent the next four and a half months trying to catch a cold, pneumonia, malaria ...anything, so I could gracefully skip out on spa-day. sigh... no dice.

fast forward to "spa day". I seriously consider taking a couple of beers... possibly an entire 6 pack, with me to shotgun in the parking lot before I join the girls, but I worry that stumbling in, slurring at 10am, I might draw even more attention to myself than I will with my sweaty palms and the huge sweat stains that are showing up under my pits.

I arrive (un-inebriated, damn it) and we all go thru the introductions, hugs and niceties and suddenly, I'm thinking to myself, hey, there are so many people in here, maybe I can just hang out and chat and no one will notice if I don't actually get anything done, I can just plaster the same mellowed-out smile on my face that all the other girls seem to have, and no one will be the wiser, right? -okay, good plan. a few minutes later, I was completely caught off guard when my name was called out by a gal, who apparently takes her fashion cues from the late, great Johnny Cash, because she's dressed in black from her head to her toes... hmmm, I don't remember meeting her -and then my eyes drift down to the little design just above her left breast where I see the words: The Spa at Personal Choice. DAMN IT, again -I'd forgotten all about that friggen sign up sheet, and my number was up!

Head hung low, I follow Johnny Cash, Jr. thru the catacombs where we finally arrive at a candle-lit room with soft Celtic music playing, there's even a little waterfall to add to the ambiance -I mean, they really go all out to create a calm, relaxing atmosphere. I kid you not, I had to choke back a nervous laugh because my first thought was, dayum, I hope Jr's not gonna put the moves on me back here -which I realize was completely random but eh, that's pretty much how I roll ...and as I'm kinda cracking myself up, it dawns on me that the Celtic music reminds me an awful lot of the pan flute CD that I used to tease my homegrill about after finding it in her collection. Zamfir, anyone. ...anyone? ah, but I digress... I'm on the verge of nervous hysteria when Jr tells me to take my shirt and bra off and get comfortable up on the table (SEE?! I knew she was gonna put the moves on me -I KNEW it!) -then, as if sensing that I was a spa newb, she added, "face-down". pfffft. yeah, ok, I knew that -and then she excused herself so I could disrobe.

I got myself undressed, carefully hiding my boulder holder in the folds of my discarded shirt -don't ask me why, but I've always folded my clothes, being sure to tuck my underoos out of sight anytime I have to undress (I'm talkin like undressing at the dr's office etc... NOT whilst in the throws of passion... wait, passion? pfffft... nevermind.). I turned to get on the table but it was too high to just back up and sit down on, so I looked around, but there was no stepstool. So, I start to panic that Jr is gonna walk back in any second now, and not only see me standing there half nekkid but witness me trying to hike my fat ass up on the table that is too high... ugh, I finally make it up there and as I'm trying to get myself turned around and flipped onto my belly, I reach out and grab something, which turns out to be the face stirrup thing, for a little leverage and the freakin thing completely falls off! O. M. G.! so, now I'm on my belly, trying to hold my head up so I can see what I'm doing, while keeping my bewbs plastered down on the table, as I try and reattach the face thing without getting up off the table... I sure hope the spa doesn't have any hidden cameras in those rooms, because I'm tellin you, if they do, I'm sure you'll be seeing me and my boingly-doinglies on one of those shows where you send in video clips for cash. I was seriously thankful I hadn't forgotten my deodorant because I was starting to work up a sweat -and that's the moment Jr chose to come back in. now, completely mortified, I tell her that I've broken the face stirrup (what the hell do you call that thing anyway?) and she calmly tells me "oh, ...don't worry, it's not broken, it. just. has to. go in liiike... uhm..." and then she procedes to fight with the stoopit thing for what seems like several minutes, until, thankfully, it *finally* clicks back into place. by this time, I'm so busy concentrating on not spontaniously combusting, I just bury my face in the newly repaired face holder and pray I don't do anything else embarassing... like fart.

heeere we go... Jr splashes some oil on my back but before she actually begins the massage, I hear her take a series of what sounds like deep cleansing breaths like they teach in Lamaze class -I'm guessing that was to fortify her for the work ahead because once she got started she really worked my muscles, to the point of it being almost painful. I kept hearing her taking these deep breaths in and slow breaths out and I wondered if maybe she was doing that to cue me to breathe that way in order to relax... meanwhile, I was busy praying I wouldn't become so relaxed that I'd let one fly -gaah, talk about the coup de grâce, eh? by the time it was over, I felt like a lump of clay after it's been smooshed and kneeded until it's smooth and pliable -I was completely relaxed, and I realized as I was getting dressed, that I had survived, and so had Jr., who's name it turns out, was Alisha... and I had in fact really, really enjoyed my first massage.

fully relaxed, I floated out to the pedicure bench to sit with my feet in water that was so warm, I instantly regretted not having relieved my bladder beforehand -especially in my newly relaxed state. after a nice soak, I had my feet scrubbed, and then got exfoliated all the way up to my knees (thank goodness I had thought to shave that morning... I would have been mortified if she'd seen the Yeti legs I had been sporting!), feet and legs lotioned, nails and cuticles trimmed... and then had my toenails painted Stilleto red... and finished off with a spritz of yummy smelling almond oil -B.E.A.-youuu-tiful! I was so distracted by talking with all the girls durring this process, I didn't even have time to think about how weirded out I am by people touching my feet... long (boring) story there, but it has to do with some surgeries I had 20+ years ago.

so now, that I've experienced (and survived) "spa-day" I'm thinking I may indeed be a "spa-day" type of girl after all... and Jack may have to work some extra hours, do some side jobs, maybe even sell a kidney to keep me in the style to which I'm quickly becoming accustomed.

ahhh... life's good.