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.

Less Talking, More Rubbing

My massage therapist quit. It’s almost as tough as a break-up. I know it was him, not me, but still, I must move past him and find another one to take his place. If you think about it, finding a new masseuse is about as difficult as finding a new boyfriend. You have to trust this new person enough to get naked and let him or her touch your body, to help you relax, or to work out your most hidden pockets of pain. It is not a relationship to take lightly.

The best way to find that someone new is Groupon. At least if it doesn’t work out, I didn’t pay full price. This applies only to the massage therapist. You’re on your own for the new boyfriend part. I don’t even know how to find an old boyfriend.

Last week, I went for a massage to the salon where this Groupon massage therapist works. I should have known something was a little off about the place for a couple of reasons. First, I have never noticed  the salon before even though I drive by it at least three times a week. Second, the entire parking lot was filled with Buicks and Toyota Avalons and even a Lincoln or two. I went inside and knew from the smell that something was up.

Do you remember way back when you would go to a salon and the entire place reeked of that pissy permanent solution? Well, that’s what this place smelled like, a combination of formaldehyde and urine. Yes, I had stumbled into some sort of underground blue hair salon. Every chair was taken with elderly women getting their weekly shampoo and set.  Old ladies were under heated dome dryers or had heads full of plastic curlers. The cackling and coughing were as overpowering at the stench.
You know how at Disney World, they have a little parking area for strollers? Well, this place had the same thing, only for walkers and wheelchairs. There was a line for the restroom. I could feel my ovaries drying up as I sat in the waiting area.

How did they all know about this place? I kind of got why I might not have heard of it, but is there some sort of secret senior network that distributes this kind of information? It sure as hell wasn’t on my Groupon voucher; “consider this your senior discount” wasn’t anywhere in the small print.

My massage therapist came out to greet me, and I was pleased to see she looked so spry. She escorted me to the room and went over my paperwork before getting down to business. The room looked like a Hobby Lobby vomited all over it. Ornate crosses, reproduction prints of the Sistine Chapel, more crosses, inspirational quotes. At least none of the crosses were burning. Even the background music sounded sort of hymn-like. I didn’t know if she was a very devout Christian or thought the majority of her clients were, but all that crossy cross made me more than a little uncomfortable.

She asked about my health history and then excused herself while I disrobed and got on the table. She came back in and began my massage, making small talk in a way I prefer my massage therapists not do. First, she started talking about getting a higher degree. I asked in what field, and she told me she was working towards a doctorate in metaphysical science.

What does one say to that? Wow, you are getting a higher degree in the science of everything not science? Is that online or is there an actual institute of higher learning where one can earn such a degree? If it is online, is there a graduation ceremony?  Instead, I mumbled something about not knowing much about metaphysics, which is true, I don’t. I’m not up on all my New Age quackery.

But no matter, she seemed pretty well versed in it, which I discovered when the small talk veered off to a discussion about our children. We were comparing stories about our kids, in a getting to know you, not my kids are better than your kids sort of way. I was talking about how artistic my daughters are, with one of them studying guitar and piano while the other likes piano and ballet. We talked about their personalities, and how school is for our kids, and then she said to me, “I bet your girls are indigo children.”

Not knowing what that meant, I chose to stay silent. After all, she was working on her doctorate in metaphysical science. She probably had coursework in it.

“Do you know about the indigo children?” she asked me.

“I do not,” I said.

“Well, Google it when you get a chance. I bet your children are indigos.”

When I got home, I got right on my desktop and looked up indigochildren.  Guess what? It is a New Age thing, but mainstream enough that CNN covered it in the past few years. Basically, it can be used to describe a whole gaggle of kids, ranging from the artistic and sensitive types to the kids who talk to dead people and bend spoons with their brains.

 When my daughters got home from school, I asked them if they ever saw dead people. They indicated they had not, although my older daughter said she did see a dead deer on the side of the road on the drive home. She didn’t sound all that sensitive when she said it.

I'm sure Groupon will have another massage deal tomorrow.

One Woman Ranting

I knew when I didn’t wake up early to pee today that something wasn’t quite right. My sister usually chalks up days like these to Mercury being in retrograde, but I don’t know what that means, nor would I believe in it if I did. I do believe in Murphy’s Law and bad luck and when it rains it pours. Except sometimes it doesn’t pour, it just gets misty and starts and stops and is generally irritating. That’s how today was.

My massage I had scheduled for today was cancelled. I know, I know, first world problems. But still, it was my massage. The italics are to let you know to read that sentence as a whine. My massage therapist had some bullshit reason like a scheduling issue, and cancelled my appointment with about two hours’ notice. Can you imagine calling off your massage with two hours’ notice? I’m sure you’d have to pay for it anyway, just like you would at the doctor’s office. If Starbucks fucks up your coffee order, they will occasionally give you a card for a free drink. I should get an extra fifteen minutes tacked onto my rescheduled appointment.

Since I had a block of free time, I decided to make a coffee cake from scratch to take to the gym in the morning. One of the fitness instructors has been out for a long time following one of those freak accidents that you hear about on the news: Woman injured as SUV rolls out of driveway is expected to make a full recovery. Well, tomorrow’s her first day back to torturing us at the gym after her ribs knit themselves back together, and what better way to commemorate it than a coffee cake?

So I baked a beautiful cake from scratch with a ribbon of cinnamon, brown sugar, and walnuts through the middle. I set it on the counter to cool for ten minutes before taking it out of the cake pan. I placed the wire rack on top of the cake pan and flipped it. Instead of setting the cake down on top of the rack, I dumped the whole thing on the counter. The cake cracked open like a delicate piñata, spilling its cinnamon walnut layer all over the counter. I picked up the salvageable pieces and put them back in the pan, then swept the rest into a giant crumb pile which then went in the garbage. Then I said some bad words and went upstairs to shower.

 

 

 

During my shower, the doorbell rang. It was UPS! I had five packages waiting on my doorstep, the bounty of my Cyber Monday activities. I opened four of the packages without incident, but the fifth one was a doozy. It was one of those thick plastic bags that doesn’t have any perforation, so you just have to hack at it with scissors hoping to force an opening somewhere. I hacked all right, right through one of the shirts. Merry Christmas, kid! Don’t look at the back of your shirt where I cut an extra hole. What makes it even worse is that I spent literally two hours on that website, the most user unfriendly website on all of Al Gore’s invention, trying to buy a goddamn t-shirt. A one of kind t-shirt, as in cannot be reordered or replaced. I sat down immediately to email the company to complain about their packaging. After I sent it, I checked over the rest of the shirts and realized I ordered the wrong size on a different one, which is for the same person as the shirt that I nicked.  

The best part of the day, stolen from me. My cake, nay, my talent for baking, lay in so many hunks on the counter. My carefully planned and chosen gifts a tattered and missized reminder to check my order before placing it. Is the universe trying to tell me something?

Perhaps it was all coincidence. Perhaps it’s time for me to slow down and take my time. Perhaps I am getting old and less careful. Perhaps I am losing my touch. Or maybe, perhaps today just sucked, and it has nothing to do with me.