As my neck cramped up midday Friday, a light came on in my aching head. I remembered I had a lovely spa gift card just waiting to be used.I was able to schedule a massage for that evening and began to plot my end-of-week bliss. I would arrive early and soak in the hot tub before my massage. Aaaaaaaah.
I drive up to the spa armed with bathing suit and card, but not sure where to park. The valets assured me they would happily take care of it gratis, but this required me madly rummaging through my overstuffed purse to find my plug-in car key for them. In the process, my bathing suit was tossed aside and forgotten. I also knew I had no cash for a tip so I mentally began running through my options to obtain said cash before the night was over. So far, not relaxing.
Oblivious to my lost suit, I hiked the distance from valet kiosk to spa hoping for the best, still in high good humor. This always gets me in trouble. As I waited for the check-in clerk, I could hear she was on the phone with a very annoyed client.
“Yes,” she assured her for the third time. “We will absolutely refund that, but I can’t do it today as the offices are closed. Yes, we are so sorry. Yes, it was definitely our fault. Yes, yes, yes.”
In a very poorly planned effort to be amusing, I raised my finger and pretended I was going to push the phone button down. I meant to signal that I would take care of that annoying customer for her … ha, ha, ha. The look of horror on the attendant’s face clearly indicated she actually thought I was going to do it, that she was horrified at the prospect and that she did not see even a shred of humor in my action. Oops. She interpreted it as me being impatient for her to get off the phone. Double oops.
So I’m off on two wrong feet before I ever get in the door. Good times.
Ah well. I finally proceeded into the spa maze and got my things into a locker, realizing as I shed clothing that my bathing suit was on my car seat somewhere in a far parking lot. So the inner debate began. Do I go ahead into the hot tub san suit or skip it altogether and sit staring at my hands for an hour?
Not being the least bit modest, but fearing I might terrify others, I struggled briefly and then decided to channel my inner Scandinavian and go for it.
I slipped into the tub as unobtrusively as possible, curled up in a corner and tried to relax. Fat chance. I’m just not able to flaunt it. I stuck it out for about 10 minutes, laughing out loud at myself, then made a clumsy effort to slip swiftly into my robe again, dragging it through several puddles in the process. Smooth.
The massage was heaven on earth and made up for all my silliness, but I walked out still chuckling. How long do you think it will take before staff stops talking about the weird, rude, naked broad? I’d like to go back.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer keeping a back-up swimsuit handy from now on. Contact her at [email protected].