You know that feeling you get when you are anticipating an unpleasant experience? The clammy palms, stomach tied up in knots, chest is pounding and that line of sweat starts to bead on your brow.
I’m presuming common triggers for this would be flying, public speaking, first dates, etc. That sort of thing.
The spa does it for me.
I KNOW! I don’t know what’s wrong with me either.
Do not mistake my basket of nerves for not wanting to go.
Stay with me; this is where it gets weird.
I love the spa.
I really love it. I love the ambiance, the quiet, the noiselessly moving ladies bustling about, and let’s not forget the plush robes. It’s not like anyone is forcing me to go get manicured or waxed (a la Fifty Shades of Grey but that is another ball of wax. Pun totally intended).
The pinched and pulled women intimidate me and I'm never quite sure if I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing. Yes, I know. It's mostly laying there. But these are MY neuroses, thankyouverymuch.
First, everyone whispers. It’s the whole PEACE and SERENITY thing.
Apparently, I have the hearing of an 97 year old man. You whisper something to me once, and I don’t get it I’ll ask you to repeat. If I don’t pick it up the second time I’ll just nod, and accept whatever happens next.
That is how I got my lips spackled with something akin to dry wall paste.
Unbeknown to me, I said yes to some fancy-dancy lip treatment. I should have known when my lips started burning. After what seemed like an hour of the esthetician scrubbing and pulling off the dried goo, my poor lips looked like two balloon animals glued to my face. And they stung for hours afterward.
Secondly, I don’t want to look like I don’t know what I’m doing... sooooo I just don’t do anything.
For my first ever facial I had no idea what it really entailed.
Everything was going swimmingly until she burnt my face off.
(For those of you who don’t know: there is a part in most facials that the esthetician will use steam as a way to soften and prepare the skin for the treatments).
I wasn’t prepared. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t even whisper anything (at least I don’t think so).
All of a sudden, the sun had camped out on my face.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t open my eyes.
There was nowhere to turn my head to get air.
I was suffocating.
You are probably asking “Couldn’t you just move the machine away?” And you’d be right. And of course I could have. I just didn't want her to think I didn't know what I was doing.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?
This is it. I’m going to DIE. In a spa. From steam. I hope Mark knows not to put this in the obituary. Nice going, Kristen.
She came back into the room at the very minute I would have expired.
"Weird, I guess I turned it on MAX. But don’t worry; your skin is going to be AMAZING."
Finally, there are some things I’m just not comfortable with getting touched. (You don't need to stop reading, Dad. It's totally PG.)
Massages are super ridiculously awesome. If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it at the mere mention of a massage.
For a great massage, you have to communicate with your masseuse about what you’re looking for. This should be a good thing.In the intro I always ask for deep tissue, but also I ask them not to massage my feet or hands. Weird? Yes. Crazy? Nah.
My hands are a different story. When I get nervous my palms sweat. And since I’m in a spa situation I’m nervous from the minute I walk in the door until the minute I’m signing the credit card receipt.
I don’t want the masseuse to think I have some weird hand sweating disease, so I put my hands on the Don’t Touch List as well.
My first massage at a new place here in Texas went something like this:
Yeah, so if you could just NOT do my hands and feet that would be great.
I really don’t want my hands or feet massaged. Cool? *Trying to move on*
That’s like THE best part of the massage. *Insert hand on hip attitude*
For some people, I bet it is. Not for me, though. Sorry!
With a look that said “you are THE freakiest girl in the world” she sauntered off so we could get started.
Not 10 minutes into my massage, she started whispering.
I’m face down, trying to enjoy my 50 minutes of peace.
Hmm…I’m sorry, what did you say?
Mumble, whisper, mumble.
And don’t you know I got my hands and feet massaged.
(And, yes. I did tip her.)