Spa Day

Today I finally made good use of a gift certificate I received two (or three?!) years ago issued for a trendy spa downtown. I decided to indulge in a massage and a manicure, two things I never, ever do.

I was looking forward to my day. I chatted with my friends about what to expect since a great many of them indulge in these activities regularly. It seems to be what one does around here to fit in.

And enjoy myself I did. There's no denying that lying on a table with soothing music playing, being treated with various Aveda oils and lotions and having kinks in your neck worked out is incredibly relaxing.

But it may just not be me.

I know little about the nuances involved with regular massages but I gather you're not supposed to be thinking about twenty other things you should be doing or, more importantly, what you'd rather be doing. Surely in massage utopia a complete disconnect from reality and routine is achieved.

I shouldn't be surprised. I've always been more of jeans and tennis shoe type of girl than a fitted pair of Diesel jeans and heels type and you're much more apt of find me without make-up than with, but still, the hope was there. Why couldn't I also be a spa girl?

Truthfully I feel much more relaxed sinking into the futon down in our cold, miserable basement with a bowl of hot, buttery popcorn on one side and a kid snuggled into me on the other and indulging in a movie we rented (for free!) from the library on a Friday night than I do having all my aching, stressed out limbs blissfully and skillfully manipulated to feel as unwound as possible. How bizarre is that?!

But, as always, I'm a contradiction. I loved the gift, and I'd happily accept another spa gift certificate but I think it's time I just accepted the fact that I'll never be the sort that wants or desires regular primping beyond a regular hair-cut, and that's only because I can't physically see if I don't do that. I'm not a spa girl. And that's OK.