Lot's Wife

Every day, I get at least one email from Groupon or Living Social or Deal Chicken offering a discount on massage. I’m curious how my emails know how much I love massage, or how stressed I feel all the time, but whatever, I’m generally open to the idea of paying a stranger to rub my naked body, or better yet, to have said rub at a discount. Normally, I like to at least check with some friends or Yelp to see if these deals are really a deal or if it’s not that kind of massage. And sometimes, the offer is one I can’t refuse.

That could be said of the Groupon I used a week or two ago at a place here in my town. The spa billed itself as a medical salt spa, whatever the fuck that means. Apparently, in addition to the usual massages and facials and body wraps and Botox, this particular spa has a room they call the Salt Cove. The offer include a massage of my choice and a forty-five minute session in the Salt Cove, the ultimate in relaxation experiences, all for the low price of $65, or less than the cost of the massage by itself. How could I pass this one up?

I went for my appointment, which was in an office park building, not the most relaxing of settings. I don’t know if you are familiar with that Steve Martin classic, “The Man with Two Brains.” Well, in the movie, the mad scientist’s lab (Dr. Necessitor. Yeah, I loved that movie, so what?) was actually in a condo that was decorated to look like a castle. That’s what the medical salt spa was like, sort of. You walk into the office building and through the suite door and instantly it’s all dark and ornate and fragrant.

I stumbled up to the counter to check in and discovered my massage was to be conducted by a Russian woman. Now, I have nothing against Russian women; hell, some of my best friends are Russian women. She was a cute young petite thing with a minimum of facial hair, so I was expecting a mediocre at best rubdown. Looks can be deceiving, though. She was strong like bear, and I was already pleased with my money well spent.

After my sports massage (laugh all you want, but I go to the gym every day and that shit be sore!), it was time for the ultimate in relaxation, a trip to the Salt Cove. I had to leave my belongings, including my cell phone and purse, in an unlocked cabinet outside of the Salt Cove. Nothing makes relaxing more difficult than worrying about someone stealing your iPhone and wallet. Then I had to remove my shoes so that I could better interact with the salt. I have never interacted with salt before, other than in a shaker. Sometimes I knock it over and have to sprinkle some over my shoulder to ward off bad luck, but that’s about the extent of my usual salt interaction. I was almost giddy with excitement, except for the part where I worried about my iPhone and wallet and now shoes potentially going missing.

The Russian massage therapist pulled the door open to the Salt Cove, and we stepped inside. Every inch of wall was covered in slabs of Himalayan salt crystals, like those salt lamps they sell everywhere.  In various places in the walls were built-in lighting that changed from green to blue to red to yellow. My daughter had a night light like that once. We called it the disco nightlight, and we had to get rid of it because it kept her awake. The ceiling had fake salty stalactites and more twinkly lights, like little stars. There were four zero gravity lounge chairs in the room, and a few microfiber throws in case of a chill. On one wall was a fireplace, but instead of logs, it had more salt crystal slabs stacked like logs or possibly the Fortress from "Superman Returns". Even the floor was covered in a gravelly layer of salt, although it looked less like the walls' crystal slabs and more like coarse sea salt.

I settled myself in a chair with a blanket covering me, and the Russian massage therapist asked me if I needed to use the restroom before she started the relaxation. I declined. Big mistake.

She left the room, and I was alone in the Salt Cove, with the color changing ambient lighting. I noticed a vent on one wall, and for a brief moment, my inner Jew was on high alert. What if they pumped this room full of Zyklon B?

Instead of toxic gas, it was a recording of a man talking about the relaxing properties of salt. He spoke a bit like Bob Ross, relaxing and saccharin and sing song. He talked about the rules of the room. No touching the salt walls. No talking on your cell phone (which you couldn’t take in there anyway). No eating. Then he launched into a list of how salt therapy is beneficial. It sounded just like a pharmaceutical commercial. After listing every medical condition that can affect the human body, he then provided a just as lengthy disclaimer about how there was no scientific evidence to support any of those claims, and again listed each medical condition that had been listed previously to benefit from the Salt Cove relaxation experience.  I could feel myself relaxing already.

Except I was wrong. It was just my bladder. It was relaxed and ready to pee, and I was in essence trapped in the Salt Cove, no clock on the crusty walls, no other person for miles around, except possibly in the next room, and I had to go. By this point, the talking portion of the relaxation tape was over, and the same music from the massage therapy room was piped in. I could hear voices outside the door, but I was too scared to leave. What happened if I interrupted my forty-five minute session? Would I be allowed to get my shoes because I do not walk barefoot in any bathroom not in my own house? Where was the bathroom anyway? Would I have to start my relaxation all over again? How was all this bathroom anxiety relaxing?

 Needless to say, I wasn’t relaxed.

After trying to close my eyes and breathe deeply and not concentrate on my very full inner pee bag, I was exhausted and fell into a very light sort of sleep or septic coma. I don’t know how long it lasted, but the next thing I know, the man’s voice was instructing me to gather my personal belongings, as my relaxation experience had come to an end. I sat for a little longer, waiting to see if anyone would come to collect me, but no one showed up, so I folded the throw over my zero gravity chair and shouldered the door open. That was one heavy door. It must have been all the salt slabs.

After putting on my shoes,I located the bathroom, which was also dark and ornate, and relieved myself in the appropriate receptacle. I made sure my purse still had all its contents,  left a tip at the counter, and got in my car.

Now, call me vain, but I do like to look in the rear view mirror when I first get in my car to make sure everything is in order. Clean nostrils, nothing in the teeth, no smears of lipstick or mascara, that sort of thing.  I looked at myself, and I realized they let me walk out of their medical salt spa looking like I spent the afternoon doing blow. My nostrils were crusted white and salty, two little margarita glasses. I jabbed my fingers into my nose to try to clean off my nostrils, because of course who has a Kleenex when you need one? I wiped my hands on the inside of my shirt, which now looked like I had deodorant smears all over it. 

I licked my lips and was surprised to find they tasted salty. So I licked my arm. Salty. I was covered in a thin crust of Himalayan salt. What the actual fuck? Maybe that’s why I got the massage first, so I could have a barrier of moisturizer to prevent me from shriveling like a slug.

All in all, it is an experience not to be missed. I highly recommend it.