At the beginning of this thunder showery week, I finally took advantage of a Christmas gift that was about to expire and booked myself a day at the spa.
To those of you out there who do this regularly, I officially envy you. I felt like a very important human being as I was touched and rubbed and polished to classical music and lavender candles. I also felt more spoiled than all of the stressed out bureaucrats I strolled past upon my release onto Sparks St.
Since I'd never had a massage in my life (with the exception of multiple non-sensual [usually painful] physiotherapy appointments), this part was especially luxurious, though I had to consciously push down feelings of strangeness at the intensity of the experience of a stranger being paid to touch me. The sensation was truly provocative, as the physical release of the massage triggered corresponding emotional releases, all of this occurring in a dark closed room with a girl I had just met. Is it okay to cry at the spa? Interesting culture of privilege we have in this world.
Whatever, I stomached my guilt and pondered the incalculable beauty of Moonlight Sonata until I wept into the massage bench face cradle (What was Beethoven thinking when he wrote that song? It's perfectly blurry, profoundly dissonant, emotionally exhaustive, I cry through the whole third movement, OMG). Then I put myself together enough to choose an opalescent sheen for my fingernails and watched Desperate Housewives until I sank comfortably back into shallow thoughts (of pick-up lines, of shopping lists, of what I will name my puppy).
Thoughts on spa days, feminists?
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