Matt and I went to Mexico for the holidays and while we were there, we indulged ourselves with several visits to the spa. We also indulged ourselves with ridiculous amount of food including one entire cheesecake, half of a french silk pie, and around 5 pounds of guacamole. And by “we” I mean “me.”
At some point I think the wait staff figured out I didn’t have a sick child in my room whose dying wish was to eat an entire cheesecake in one sitting.
One morning during our trip, I got on the elevator to go to the gym. Yes, I took the elevator to go to the gym. My room was on the 3rd floor. Did you really think I would take the stairs? Pfft!
Why would I work out before I worked out? Ridiculous. And close your mouth. I know you’re shocked I went to the gym but reading this post with your mouth open in awe isn’t a good look for you.
When I got in the elevator I was greeted by Rick, a friendly gentleman who was quite chatty despite the fact it was 8:00 a.m. I know you’re thinking “Wow. They must stay at a really nice resort if there are elevator operators.” Um, no. Rick wasn’t the elevator attendant, as it wasn’t 1952. Rather, Rick was simply another guest at the hotel who had a clear affinity for the color red. He had on a red shirt and red swimming trunks. Did the reds match? Of course not. Immediately I pegged him as a communist.
“Wow, there are a lot of people going to the beach this early in the morning,” Rick in Red said, trying to start a conversation on the 20 second elevator ride. (I will now refer to Rick in Red as RIR because I’m lazy and don’t want to type that out each time. You should be able to follow along with this crafty abbreviation.)
For some reason I felt compelled to explain to RIR that I wasn’t going to lay on the beach, but I going to the gym instead. I would have thought he could have deduced that from the work-out clothes I was wearing, and the water bottle, sweat towel and iPod I was holding. Obviously RIR wasn’t an overly observant guy.
“I’m going to the gym,” I responded, feeling proud of myself for actually going instead of laying in bed telling myself I needed to work out and then ordering room service instead.
“Where do you shower after you work out?” RIR asked.
What the hell? Who was this guy and why was he asking about my showering routine? And why was I answering him?
I told him I shower in the spa locker room after my pathetic workout of walking slowly on the treadmill on an incline of 2. I probably didn’t need a shower afterwards, but I liked to use the spa’s shower, as it has dispensers on the wall for various body washes. I’m a simple girl.
“You go to the spa here?” RIR responded. I told him I did and it was nice.
“I bet sumthin like that is pretty expensive, huh?” he asked, obviously mistaking me for some kind of high roller. “You know, I just go down to that Sea Breeze place down the beach and get an hour massage for $20. It’s pretty good and the women are nice and do a real nice job. You should check it out sometime and save yourself some money.” (This should be read in a bit of a hillbilly accent with “Dueling Banjos” playing in the background.)
I don’t know why, but I could tell Rick knew a quality massage, and I was confident in his recommendation for some strange reason.
Later, I told Matt about my conversation with RIR and his recommendation to get a massage on the beach instead of at the spa. Strangely enough, we were actually at the spa when I broached this subject, and we were both laying on the tables waiting for our massages to start.
“I think it’s worth a try,” I suggested. “It will be a lot cheaper and a massage right on the beach would be nice.” I have no idea why I wanted to get his permission. I had Rick’s recommendation. What more did I need?
Matt wasn’t as convinced as I was, but that’s because he didn’t see the look in RIR’s eyes when he described how the women remove the sand from your feet during the massage.
“You will come with me to make sure I’m safe and that there’s no funny business.” I said, assuring him. “And by funny business, I mean anal.”
“Too bad we never have any funny business,” my husband muttered under his breath. He’s clearly a jackass.
The next day, I decided to give the random women on the beach a try for a massage. I couldn’t find the Sea Breeze location RIR spoke so fondly of. I suspect that’s because the outfit was probably busted for smuggling women and heroin…or it was because it was Sunday and they were closed. Both are plausible explanations.
I found another tent on the beach that looked somewhat on the up and up. There was a guy with a clipboard standing out front, which completely legitimized the operation in my eyes. Matt? Not so much, as he has a strict “Don’t trust anyone with a clip board” rule.
I approached the gentleman and made an appointment for later that day. He asked for my first name and we agreed I would get a massage at 5:00 for $30.00. I could hardly wait.
When the time came, Matt accompanied me to the massage tent, where he said he would be there to make sure I wasn’t robbed. (He made no mention of whether he cared if I was assaulted, so I suspect that wasn’t in his wheelhouse of concerns.) He found a comfortable spot on the beach with a view of the tent. Here he is ready to protect me from danger.
And here he is about 5 minutes later. No joke. I hadn’t even started my massage yet and this a-hole was sound asleep. Rick wouldn’t have left me there alone to fend for myself; I just knew it.
The tent was fairly small and there were five massage tables set up in a row. There were five women working and an older overseer who looked like she would cut a bitch if someone got frisky. She was obviously far more concerned about me than my sleeping husband was.
The massage began and although it was a little strange at first, it actually ended up being pretty good, especially for $30.00. The only awkward time came about 10 minutes into the massage when the woman whispered softly in my ear “Do you want more pleasure?” Or at least that’s what I heard her say. Allegedly she said “Do you want more pressure” but I’m not so sure that’s really what she said. Either way, my response was the same…a big fat no.
The hour went by quickly and once I stopped clenching from fear of assault from the rear, it was actually quite relaxing. When the massage was over, I tipped the woman, who seemed utterly shocked by it. I could see the mean lady eying the money, and I’m sure she snatched it from the masseuse as soon as I walked away. (I hope she used it to buy some tweezers, as she had some mean chin hair.)
The next day I ran into Rick. He was wearing the exact same red outfit as the day before, confirming my suspicion of his communist status. I told him I took his recommendation and had a great massage. I considered asking him about other recommendations for services in the area, but figured I would stop while I was ahead. I wasn’t feeling brave enough to venture out again, and I didn’t want to rely on RIR for all of my entertainment needs. That’s what the bar was for!