Beauty Day

Some sound advice: never give a semi-agoraphobic, claustrophobic, with social anxiety the gift of spa treatments unless you truly despise that person. I can make this statement because I (fitting the aforementioned description) was given such a dreaded gift on a “significant” birthday by my husband who was acting on the advice of sister, Jennifer. And he spent a bundle on it: a day trip to Chateau Elan, a spa with expensive packages of treatments I’d never heard of, and equally expensive a la carte tortures. As usual, Jack, the well-meaning but misguided man, was out of town when I received the prize in the mail. I immediately called the ringmaster of the event and asked her, “How could you do this to me?”

“I thought you’d like it!” she lamented. (No, she likes these things, not I.)

“Do you not even know me after all these years?!”

“I thought it would be relaxing for you.”

“What are you kidding me?!”

“Maybe you can get your money back. If not I’ll go with you.”

“Oh yes, oh yes you will.”

Well guess what, the Chateau had a no-refunds policy that I couldn’t beg, borrow, or steal my way out of. I didn’t want to hurt Jack’s feelings but this was beyond the pale. I managed to avoid the punishment almost through to my next birthday, when the package would expire. So after much ado, sister and I headed for the spa, in the dead of winter, a two hour trip that turned into a much longer one because of a serious accident that blocked the expressway. “This is a sign,” I warned, but Jennifer was not turning back.

They had valets . . . oh the horror, a greeter at the door (oh the humanity), and one of those smooth-faced hostesses who had never had a real facial expression in her life, with the exception of that I-know-you-don’t-belong-here look in her eyes. (She was right of course.) We were issued sandals, a locker key, and the requisite white fuzzy robes. We entered the women’s area and went into the dressing rooms. Soon I was knocking on the wall adjacent to Jennifer’s dressing area, attempting to use prison lingo for what the hell am I supposed to do now? Do I put my bathing suit on under the robe? Do I try to make a run for it? Tap, tap, tap. Does anybody have a shiv? Possibly I could hang myself with the robe belt.

“I’m going around the corner into the sauna,” Jennifer spoke slowly in her Nurse Ratched voice reserved for the mentally challenged. “Just put your things in your locker and meet me there.” It sounded easy enough, but I worked myself into a froth trying to open the locker and once that feat was accomplished, getting the thing locked again was equally as vexing. When I opened the sauna door and stepped inside, Jennifer and several patrons awaited me. Once again the nurse’s voice, “Gail, do you think you really need that in here?” I still had my purse. Dammit!

After some sauna stuff, which I didn’t need because I was already in a sweat anticipating the anguish to come, we moved on to a room where we waited to be called for our dreaded back massage and facial. “Oh God, please don’t let me have a guy,” I whispered frantically to Jennifer. “Why don’t you go over and get some water over at that table?” she suggested quietly to the blathering idiot beside her—that would be me. When I sat down with my ice water, she again asked me in the soothing voice, “Did you pour the water on top of the protective cup cover?”

“Is that what that is?” I replied, gazing down at the little plastic shower cap on my cup, half filled with water. A tan-in-January couple sitting across from us tittered. Then a woman in white called my name and introduced me to a male masseuse named Dom Perignon or something. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying throughout the greasy massage ritual, but secretly hoped he’d just snap my neck like a twig and put me out of my misery. No, I did not relax. Next the crowning glory, the facial. A young woman took me into the morgue-like room awash with new age music and began doing her thing. She covered my eyes with gauze or something, put my hands in mitts, and again in that crazy don’t- use-your-vocal-chords voice said, “Now just relax. I’m going to be back in a few minutes. Just relax and enjoy.”

Enjoy what? This crappy music? The fact that I feel so slimy from that massage that I may squirt off this table? I reached up to scratch my nose and that’s when I made the terrifying discovery. She had attached my mitts together with a chord to keep my hands from sliding off the table during my fit of relaxation. Oh panic; not the hands, anything but the hands! (Well, not anything.) I started flailing around like a flounder on ice. I was blinded by cotton balls and my bound, mitted hands danced above my head in demented unison. I had to release my hands; had to escape! Finally a bit of reason prevailed. I told myself how embarrassed I would be if the facial girl came into the sanitarium, discovered that I had broken free of my mitts, and found me panting like one of Sybil’s alter egos crouched in the corner, my face slathered with goo. It took some doing, but I remained shackled until she returned. She immediately noted that my skin looked somewhat splotchy. Yes, that’s what abject fear looks like my pretty. Afterwards she led me to the room of mortification--beauty products, priced at 100 bucks an ounce. I took a rain check and tried to shrug off her open disdain. I stepped into the elevator with another patron and said, “Tell me which button to push to get out of this hellhole.” Oddly, she seemed surprised.

When we reached the escape portal, Jennifer said, “Thank God that’s over. I’ve never been so stressed in my life.”

Was it something I said?

Today, she told me that she is getting a massage for her birthday this weekend at a local spa. Hmm, I can’t help but wonder why she didn’t ask me to come along.