Day of Indulgence

My husband gave me, some time ago, an 'indulgence day' gift certificate at a local day spa. It involved the following:

Exfoliating body scrub
Full massage
Manicure
Pedicure
Specially designed facial treatment

God knows how much it cost him. He was positively glowing when he presented it to me.

I acted appropriately delighted. The truth was, I was hoping I could get a refund and buy yarn.

Not wanting to offend, I went, of course.

Relaxation my arse.

Firstly a girl of about 12 said she was going to 'evaluate' my skin. She pushed my cheek up with her finger and pronounced my face was 'dehydrated, lacking elasticity, sun damaged, showing ageing around the eyes and the mouth and in need of exfoliating and a moisture plumping facial treatment'. I ask you, what's so frigging relaxing about having a pre-pubescent twig tell you that??

I wanted to say to her 'wait till you see my bum'. But I couldn't talk - I was too afraid of possibly having bad breath - her face was millimetres away from my own.


Then came the exfoliating scrub. She gave me a surgical g string and a robe. She whispered some inscrutable instruction and left the room.

Oh my good lord. I put it on as quickly as I could - the whole time petrified she might come back and see me naked. The G string was the same at the front and the back, and I hadn't had a bikini wax (which I do myself at home) for months.

I laid face down on the massage table. There was a hole for my face. What I really needed was a big horizontal slot for my breasts as well. Except then they might hang to the ground and graze the carpet. Ugh.

She comes back in and turns the lights down low. I'm certain this is for her own convenience, as I could almost hear her wince in disgust as she floated over, a huge pot of warm moist blue salt in one hand. There was this god-awful music in the background. It was supposed to be foreign and exotic and relaxing. It was just stupid.

Meanwhile, I am trying to clench the fat on my back, in the vain hope that when she starts rubbing that salt on my body, any wave effect might be nullified. Alas, it is not good. Do I have pimples on my bum? I fret. How bad is that cellulite? She rubs and rubs - I feel every excruciating wobble. To add insult to injury (or rub salt into the wound ha ha) she soon runs out of salt, and goes to get another pot. I wonder if I'll be charged extra for having a body so large it needs two pots of salt?

I have to then roll over (in the presence of the waif, in a paper g string and no top on, on a board about 30 cm wide - oh so very elegant) She bites the inside of her cheeks to stop herself laughing. The front is worse than the back - but at least it's over quickly.

You may shower now, she says. And leaves the room. I throw the robe on and shuffle to the shower only to find the water pressure is about as strong as hospital teabags and there is only one temperature - tepid. It takes me about 20 minutes to wash the salt off me. I am pink.

The rest was just a blur. And at the end of it, she fleeced me out of $145 in skin products professionally chosen for my ageworn haggard face.


A day of indulgence. What a crock. Never never never again.


So, darling if your reading this. It was a lovely gesture, but next year, just buy me a webs voucher? That really would be relaxing.


And because I've probably lost you all by now, here is a picture of me at work today trying to sort out all my lace swappers.