Which stinks, because as much as I love getting massages, I hardly ever do it. Time and money constraints being the major limiting factors.
But after my third headache last week, I decided I needed to change things up.
So I performed a little research and found a spa close to where I work. Next, I submitted my formal request to The Committee (my husband, my 2 children, and my mom–who usually does the babysitting if my husband has clients or a meeting or whatever), cross-referenced the spa schedule with my work schedule and kids’ school schedule, received approval for the time from The Committee, booked an appointment…and just like that, I was all set to go.
(You see, sidebar here: it is not a simple thing for me to slip away from my various responsibilities these days…not like in my B.C. years (Before Children), when booking an appointment for myself would work something like this: 1) pick up phone & book appointment. 2) go. Sigh.)
So I was pretty excited, needless to say. I’m a big fan of pampering, and I totally believe in the health benefits of the spa. I do wish it were a little less costly, but you can’t have everything. Anyway…
Here’s where things went wrong.
My therapist’s hands were cold. Yes, the term icy springs to mind. And the lotion she used? Also cold. I’ve been to some spas that warm the lotion, and also warm your muscles first with warm blankets or a hot towel. I got none of that. The room was chilly, too–I had to ask her to turn up the heat. There was no aromatherapy, which is one of my favorite things. Her technique was fine, I suppose, but not fantastic. There was a lot of leaning on muscles and not so much massaging of muscles, which is what I would prefer. And, instead of a nice, soothing experience, I could hear laughter and loud chit-chat from the treatment room next door throughout the entire massage.
None of this is devastating, I know. And maybe I’m being a bit picky. There was nothing so horrible that I felt compelled to ask for my money back. It was just kind of…inferior. At the end, I paid the fee (ok, I didn’t give a huge tip) and I walked out, feeling just okay. A bummer, because I usually leave the spa floating on a cloud.
But…when I arrived home, I entered an eerily quiet kitchen in an uncharacteristically empty house, and found a glass of wine and a note sitting beside it: Taking the kids out for dinner, enjoy a peaceful house all to yourself!
My husband: the best.
I pulled out a book and sipped my wine, curled on the couch in front of the fireplace for a blissful hour, all by myself. Now that’s the request I should have submitted to The Committe all along.
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