I enjoy the finer things in life. It’s why I refuse to buy the store brand of peanut butter. (Don’t even think of convincing me that stuff tastes anything like Jif.) I have become accustomed to a certain life style. Wait, perhaps I should clarify.
I like things that make me feel good (and full). I have no problem spending money on things that fall into those categories. However, things that don’t fall into those categories typically fall by the waste side. It’s why you will never see me wearing an outfit free of at least one stain or deodorant mark, and why I consider anything less than 5 years old “totally in fashion this season.”
But when it comes to pampering myself, I cut no corners. I’m a regular spa goer and I don’t care who knows it. (Okay, maybe a little I care, as I took a spa day recently on a Thursday, and I don’t want my boss to know. But aside from him…I don’t care who knows it!)
I decided I needed a break from the day-to-day drudgery that is my life, which basically consists of working, complaining, and cleaning up dog excrement.
To reward myself for not totally losing my mind, and for not cursing out the dry cleaners for what I can only describe as date rape on my checkbook, I booked myself a 90 minute massage at The Four Seasons and set out for a day of relaxation and serious price gouging. (Five dollars for a Diet Coke and it doesn’t even have alcohol in it? No thank you!)
On my way to the spa, I called in my order for lunch. I realized this made me look like a total douche to the staff, but I didn’t care. I figured if I worked in a spa, I would consider all the patrons total douchebages regardless of whether they pre-ordered a salad or not.
I was prepared to deal with their judging eyes. I was used to it, since I always request a man’s robe when I get there. (They are so much roomier and have bigger pockets to steal the free mints.)
I arrived, checked in and headed to the locker room. The attendant followed me, despite the fact she knew I was a regular customer. Perhaps my stained sweatpants and disheveled hair suggested I was someone who might steal a towel or two (I was).
Um, do I remember how to operate something that requires only minimal finger dexterity and the IQ of one of those sweet bottles of lotion I was going to swipe? Yeah, I got it. I told her I could handle it and she walked away.
I switched into my robe and headed to one of the relaxation rooms to wait for my food. I sat down and began chatting with two women who were also getting their relaxation on. They just had massages and seemed totally relaxed (the bottle of wine they were sharing seemed to be helping in that regard).
I liked them immediately. We began doing what I call “the spa talk,” which is where we all pretend that being at the spa is a totally normal thing and we aren’t totally freaking out inside because the bath towels smell like eucalyptus.
(Seriously, how do they do that? And now you know why I steal.) The “spa talk” typically includes comments about other spas and services, which is just a way for the spa goer to legitimize themselves to another spa person. It’s like how the mafia is with foot soldiers, or how Jessica Simpson is with everyone.
We chatted for a while and then I was called away for my lunch, which was a $28 vegetarian Cobb salad with a water. Seriously. That’s what it cost. I’m convinced they are in cahoots with my dry cleaner.
I scarfed down the salad in approximately 3 bites, and then to fill myself up, ate the entire basket of bread. Did you really think I would eat just a salad for lunch? Oh, that’s so cute.
I was then “collected” for my massage by my favorite masseuse, Mary, who is older than my mom but has hands like a Hungarian baker. I love her and her outdated Birkenstocks (even I know those are out of style. Get with it Mary.)
After the service I changed into my suit and headed out to the pool for some sun (and a nap). I walked through the cafe area on my way to the pool and noticed the two women I spoke to earlier. They were finishing up their lunches and drinking what I can only assume was another bottle of wine.
We chatted about my service and how fabulous it was. I told them I was headed to the pool for some fresh air (and because I was gassy) and that they should join me, but sit downwind. They agreed and collected their things. As they did so, I looked at one of the other tables and noticed a full glass of champagne, along with an empty glass and an open bottle.
“What’s the story here?” I asked, as I slid over to the table.
“Oh, a woman sat there waiting for a guy who never came. She drank her glass and then left,” they said, with pity in their voice for the girl who was ignored and was most likely in the bathroom cutting herself at that exact moment.
I wanted to feel sorry for her. I did. But all that came out was “So….where are we on this champagne?”
They looked at me and one of them said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we…”
I looked up at them, expecting to see judgment in their eyes. Instead, I found approval. Without another word, we all 3 moved quickly, grabbed glasses and the bottle of champagne and headed to the pool on the roof.
We spent the rest of the afternoon drinking someone else’s champagne, chatting, and enjoying the sun and the pool. The three of us realized we got along great, and had similar personalities (the similarity being that we were all awesome).
When the day drew to a close (which was coincidentally when the alcohol ran out), we said our goodbyes and parted ways. But not before scheduling another spa day for the three of us. No joke.
We are scheduled to return in three weeks, and this time, we are hoping two different women get stood up for lunch. Although would it kill a girl to order a bottle of Grey Goose instead of champagne next time? Here’s to hoping!