I went to a local health and beauty spa today, Spa Martinique. I had done something to my neck yesterday – I have a history of “throwing it out” going back to childhood and later in college. I’d been thinking of finding a good local “aaaah spa,” the kind of place where you walk in the door and the atmosphere of serene calm (and the scent of expensive emollients) is designed to make you say “aaaah.” I’d been to one in Salt Lake but didn’t know if I’d have to schlep all the way downtown or not.
A few days ago, “Hope” at This is Zimbabwe mentioned in passing how she longed to book some time at a spa, just to forget the troubles there for a while. It’s impossible for Hope, but for me, it’s far too easy – just call and book. And so I called Spa Martinique, because they’re convenient and all that. Simple. The price on the website was even the same at the salon. I’ve never had to deal with hyperinflation as they do in Zimbabwe.
I thought I’d better report my experience, because things didn’t go exactly as I imagined.
Don’t get me wrong, I had a nice soak and a really thorough therapeutic massage, but there were moments of high expectations punctured by low comedy.
When you look at a spa brochure or website, you get pictures in your head of how wonderful you’ll feel and how lovely and serene and your surroundings will be. All will be quiet and peaceful, with no awkwardness or tackiness. The people in the photos are always well groomed, attractive, healthy, sexy, young, thin… you get the picture.
Nothing like me, of course. I hadn’t brushed my hair since this morning, hadn’t showered since yesterday, wasn’t wearing makeup, and had worn rather grotty jeans, which fit my rather blobby bottom only through the miracle of stretch denim. But to the spa I must go, to do it for my health, and for Hope, in a way.
This one’s for you, Hope.
So I called, booked, and watched the clock all afternoon while trying to ease the tension on both sides of my neck and down between my shoulder blades. I imagined myself being swept into a quasi-Zen state of hatori as soon as I walked in the door.
Well, almost.
I left the office about 10 minutes later than I would have liked, but would still have time to make it to the spa, but not by their “be here 15 minutes before your appointment” arrival time. So I called from the car (bad Ginny) and was assured it was no problem. It was raining. The suburban streets were unlovely and there were lots of potholes, and I imagined how I’d step into an oasis of calm in a few minutes.
I arrived, and the first thing on the agenda was giving a short medical history – standard where there are heat treatments and therapeutic things done. Fine.
Then I was met by an “aesthetist” who showed me around a little and gave me a little pep talk about the facilities and what they could do for me. I admitted that I hadn’t bothered to take care of my skin and expressed mild interest in some salon services. She went into high gear telling me how much they could do for me… oh, boy, she was salivating over how much she could sell me. I just needed the soak and the massage, really, but I nodded and smiled. They had the usual large merch area with all the products and gift baskets in soft, pastel colors. Like many salon-spas, the decor was nice. This one goes for a somewhat tropical, rattan and colorful prints look to go with the name.
Formalities over, we went through the double doors to the sanctum within. It was dark and quiet, and there was New Age-sounding meditative music. I was shown some seating areas – apparently they can do catered meals there for ladies who luncheon and spa. There was a seating area with a couch and an aquarium, and we sat down and discussed my evening: a mineral bath soak followed by a “therapeutic” massage in the capable hands of someone named Randy.
Then I was shown the dressing area, with lockers, little keys on wristbands, and a very nice towel wrap getup with a large spa robe and slippers. Left to myself, I tried to relax, put my work week behind me, and get into the “aaaah spa” mentality.
Okay, the wrap thing did go around my somewhat oversized bod – that was a relief. The aesthetician had briefed me on the tub soak to guage whether I was comfortable with being nude or not with someone else there, as she’d be in and out of the room.
Suitably but temporarily attired, I moved back out into the hall, and was taken into the tub room. Everything was really dark, and there were candles going in all the areas back there – parts I didn’t get into seemed to be related to arcane arts of the regime de beauté. The tub room contained a big, squared off teal green therapy tub with a daunting array of round ball valves and hoses and grab handles and things around the edge. Water was going into the tub, and I was given a few minutes to disrobe and climb in. But first, my hair had to be gotten under control, and I was given a (totally inadequate) towel-headwrap thing that kept slipping off. I should have brought a “hair thinger” but like I said, it was an impulsive thing.
The tub wasn’t that great, actually. It had very vertical sides, and there was a plastic bar at the far end that I think I was supposed to rest my legs on, or maybe hook my feet under. I had been given a neck pillow, but it balanced awkwardly on the level edge of the tub, so I tried to get more comfortable and settled further down in the water, which didn’t really come up that far on me. The mysterious hoses at the end seemed to go into pumps down in the water, but there were jets cycling all around and under me in a pleasant way, but my hair kept slipping and I muttered “this isn’t good.”
Immediately, the aesthetician was back – I know her name, but as I will be going back, I don’t want to give the impression that she didn’t to a good job. She was very solicitous for my well-being and enjoyment, but she was hard for this ungirly middle-aged tomboy to relate to. She was lovely, but also she was wearing a large amount of makeup. Anyway, she checked on me every time I made a sound. She tried to help with my hair, and I was left again for some more relaxing.
The jets seemed to go into high gear, and while I was trying to adjust the wrap around my head yet again, some new jets came on that seemed to be shooting straight out from behind where my arms would have been if I hadn’t been fiddling with my hair. Big gouts of water sprayed forward and out both sides onto the floor – I quickly lowered my arms and tried to remember that this was supposed to be a relaxing, enjoyable soak. Then the jets cycled again to the back, and I relaxed again. But soon the jets at the foot of the tub kicked in, and this time the hoses seemed to have shifted or the level had dropped (hmm, probably all the water that went on the floor) and the jets were spraying laterally, but bouncing off my feet and going everywhere. Hmm, more attempting to relax and enjoy.
I was sensing a climax coming (it wasn’t that kind of tub, really) and then everything started to happen – the underarm jets sprayed forward and out, and a new jet or hose sprayed all over from the foot, mostly into my face, but I couldn’t see to block it with my foot and couldn’t move or the underarm jets would gush over the side of the tub unimpeded. Mindful of the need to be quiet and not disturb anyone, I gulped, tried not to vocalize, and completely failed to relax the last couple of minutes. Once I started giggling, quietly, it was all over. My attendant came in to see what was up and was rewarded with the sight of a large reddish woman blindly trying to stop the water from going everywhere.
UPDATE: She quickly turned the water off after a few moments of shock, and then she held a towel up for me as I groped my way out of the tub. We both began giggling helplessly then, as quietly as possible, and I assured her I’d had a nice soak and apologized for the water all over the floor. She had no idea what had gone wrong, as I wiped all the water off my face. Good thing I hadn’t worn makeup, eh? Pretty drastic moisturizing regime, though.
With my hair as damp as it was, I was finally able to roll it into a self-knot and secure it for the next stage, the massage. Again temporarily attired, I was led out into the dark hallway to meet Randy, the masseur. He turned out to be a very large Eastern European guy with huge (but very soft) hands. After a consultation about the areas I wanted him to emphasis – like telling a big thug just how you’d like to be worked over – he brought me into the (darkened) massage room, which contained a standard massage table laid with sheets and a small countertop area with cabinets. After showing me where to stow my robe and towel wrap, he instructed me to get under the sheets on the table and lie face down (there was a cradle for the head). All very routine, as I’ve had pro massages a few times before.
He warned me I’d be sore the next day, and maybe the day after – and he’s right, I’m sore. But it’s a soreness I recognize, the kind you feel after a heavy workout when you haven’t gotten much exercise in a while. It’s a pain that you know leads to better health and well-being, so it’s not so much to be endured, but savored, as you’re reminded you’re alive and on the mend by it.
The massage itself, when “Randy” re-entered, was a very thorough hour’s worth of deep tissue work, firm manipulations of my spine, arms, and shoulders, and a lot of what I came to think of as “Vulcan neck pinch massage.” That is, Randy used a lot of techniques to put pressure on “trigger points” where nerves could be manipulated and knotted tightness in the muscles could be released. And he found all the spots that previous massage therapists found, even the ones on either side of my tailbone and along the sides of my pelvis. He really knew his musculo-skeletal stuff. An hour of being intensely, slowly getting beaten up ensued, with a lot of work on the neck and up and down the spine. It was not the super-relaxing heaven of the Hawaiian lava-rock hot stone massage, but I know that I can get that there, too.
We conversed on various topics and on my literal “back story,” and I was curious as to where he was originally from, but didn’t want to be untactful. So at one point I asked “Where did you do your training?” and he replied “There’s this school in Villa Park.” Okay, maybe next time.
Massage over, he left while I crawled slowly out from under the coverings and got into my wrap and robe. I went out to be greeted one last time, and he gave me his card and a small scented wrapped packet that I took to be some kind of soap sample, all of which I stuck in my pocket as I dressed in my grotty jeans and rain jacket. Then I paid up at the counter, and left for home – having been there for a total of about 2 hours.
After getting home, I puttered around but was too relaxed to get much done for David’s return from his week-long trip to COMMON. So I went upstairs with my laptop, turned the radio on, and listened to the Beeb on WBEZ for an hour or two (much of the news being about Zimbabwe). I kept wanting something sweet, though. I really wanted some kind of treat, but didn’t have anything in the house. Craving chocolate. Maddeningly, I could almost smell it.
As I got undressed for bed, I pulled out all the stuff from my spa visit from my pockets – receipt, aesthetics “prescription” for what I should do with the tiny samples I was given, pamphlets, and an oddly soft and squooshy “soap” sample.
Which turns out to have been “Tranquility Lavender Chocolate.” Aha!! Not soap!
So it went into the freezer for a while to harden enough to be eaten, while I listened to the Beeb and caught up on my reading. It was delicious, although it had melted enough to get into the corners of the wrapping, which had to be licked in order to get the last little bit of lavender chocolate goodness.
I’m still sore. I’m pretty sure we need to turn the mattress on the bed, and I have to remind myself to have better posture, because previous experience with this neck thing has taught me that sitting up straight and getting better back support is key to holding it at bay.
Actually, today I could use the services of an ANaesthetist, so I’m going to take some ibuprofen now. But that is the story of my aaaah spa visit, which I hope will dispell some illusions. Maybe sometime I’ll have more to report if I decide to go back in and get some “beauty” stuff done. I’ve never had a manicure or pedicure in my entire life – my feet are callused horrors which I haven’t dared to inflict on a footcare professional, but I could probably tolerate a facial. And my self-image is so extremely poor that I’ve always had a distinct anti-salon attitude.
I feel like: “why bother? what’s the point spending money on trying to look good when I’ll still look like crap afterward? Why waste money putting expensive paint on an ugly house? It’ll still be an ugly house with a garish paint job afterward.”
Well, we’ll see.
Via: Flickr Title: Not soap, but chocolate By: GinnyRED57
Originally uploaded: 3 Apr ’08, 11.04pm CDT PST
Ginny
I can has iPhone?
