I am getting a massage today.
I’ve never had one before. I don’t think rubbing against the Criss Angel waxwork at Madame Tussaud counts. Although I did get my mind “freaked.”
I made the appointment a couple of days ago because I have been feeling tense. We had a death in the family. I feel like I’m treading water in my professional life. My husband is running for political office. And like Demi Lovato, I am worried about Miley Cyrus’ twerking.
Of course, the spa phone call made me even more tense because I’m generally awkward when dealing in unfamiliar subjects. I ended up ordering the “Monet” massage, which I guess involves being kneaded with a rolled-up Water Lillies poster.
I was told to arrive early and bring my bathing suit so I can enjoy the other “amenities.” Jesus christ, I have to wear a bathing suit now? Maybe I can also rewatch that film strip about a girl’s changing body to feel the highest level of discomfort.
The whole spa idea makes me a bit anxious. I’m not much for pampering. I did get a manicure once before my wedding, and sweated through the whole process trying to make agonizing small talk with the manicurist.
Did you know that it looks like your nails grow after you die? That’s because your skin is receding and decaying. . . Oh, you just do one nail for a manicure? It looks good. Thanks.
My limited understanding of massages comes from playing the Justin Bieber Massage game.
I’m hoping my experience involves less hubris and trucker hats.
Maybe I would feel more comfortable if I took someone with me, someone who has gone through the experience and knows what to expect.
On second thought, maybe I’ll keep Hugo at home.