Yesterday I had my terribly expensive spa experience and let me tell you… I want more.
First off, I sprinted out of my office like a drag queen at a Nascar rally. I was terrified that any one of my team members would suddenly contract Ebola or have a sick child or a hang nail and have to go home, preventing me from taking my half day (which I had been denied on Friday AND Monday).
I went to the spa, skipping lunch and found that I would be receiving my facial first. I was led to a dimly lit very lovely comfortable room by Maria, my facial lady. There, she directed me to remove my shirt, my shoes and socks, and if I wanted, my pants, if that would make me more comfortable.
“What?” I said. I was there for a facial! This was the reason I hadn’t wanted a massage! I hadn’t wanted to be Bad Naked!
She explained that the facial included a hand and foot massage and also she would be massaging my arms and shoulders. I could leave my bra on if I wanted, but I just had to tuck the straps down. And I’d be under a nubby white Martha Stewartesque blanket the entire time.
Ok. I could do this without hyperventilating too much.
I slipped off my shirt and did the bra strap tuck thing, silently cursing myself for not wearing cute socks. Then I slipped under the covers and tried to relax, listening to the soft new age music and the sound of the waterfall outside the door.
Ahh.
She came in and gave me the most wonderful facial ever. Mmmm. Better than a hot fudge sundae. The fastest hour of my life, I think.
I now really want a massage. I’d strut naked through a busy bowling alley for a massage right now.
To my disappointment, because we had such a great rapport, Maria then handed me over to Nada, who led me to a big Mission Control type black leather chair with a special foot sink. The chair was so cool it had not one but TWO remote controls. One controlled pitch and slant of the chair, the other controlled the heat and the massage. Yup. If that chair had a toilet and a refrigerator, one would never have to get up. Nada soaked my feet in the special little foot sized hot tub thingy and did the pedicure and paraffin wax dip. The nick on my toe stung with the various Aveda moisturizers and such, but it was a penance for being so bizarre that I had shaved my feet.
Then came the hardest decision of my day… picking the color of nail polish for my toes. I picked a lovely subtle pale pink but Nada shook her head and said “Pick again”. I picked out a darker pink titled “Summer Rain” (although, seriously, if the rain in your area comes down dark pink, perhaps it’s time to move, non?) and again she shook her head and said “Be bold.” Oh my god! Judgment! I had judgment from the pedicure lady! I then selected an incredibly bright red called, I kid you not, “Oh My God Red”. She smiled and nodded. It had met Nada’s approval.
And I do have to admit that it looked lovely upon my toes. For the first time in my life, I felt that my feet were actually pretty.
Then we moved on to the manicure. She provided these spa slippers for my feet, which I swear were just glorified Always Super pads with Wings. I felt a little stupid, but my toes were really cute and they did have to dry after all. Nada filed the crap out of my nails, squaring off the graceful ovals I was so proud of. I do have to admit though, that they look very nice. After four nail polish choices were vetoed by Nada, I opted for the same “Oh My God Red” nail polish on my hands. Aside from being really rock star, it had the added feature of being anal-retentive and matching.
$198 later and I had a bottle of Aveda shampoo, a bottle of Aveda hand cream, and cute fingers and toes. My hair was all goofy from being wrapped in the towel during the facial and I had no makeup on whatsoever.
Money well spent.
The Starbucks guy flirted with me this morning!!!
Tee hee hee!!!!
(Weetabix giggles like an insane elf)
So this morning, I pulled up to the drive thru and ordered “Venti Caffe Mocha with Vanilla Syrup please.”
And immediately, his suave, debonair caffeinated voice comes through the speaker. “Um…. lessee… that will be…. um….. $3.90… let’s say it’s $3.90… hehe…. drive on up!”
I chuckled because he’s just so cute and waited patiently behind a largish SUV. I did not primp this time, as I am married and that is just so completely wrong, but I did have the music blaring as I normally do, because to deny the full power capacity of the Monte’s sweet sound system, particularly when Peter Gabriel is singing about Solsbury Hill and going boom boom boom, well, that would be a sin of biblical proportions.
After the SUV drove off, I pulled up to the window and waited with a twenty in my soft, moisturized hand. He opened the window and then did a seductive little hip wiggle to the music. He took my money and said “I can always count on you for some good music.” and smiled. I tittered (yes, tittered! god help me!) and turned down the music, embarrassed that I had been caught rocking out at 7 am in the morning. The surly Barista Girl sneered at me and handed him my cup of liquid energy and he handed it to me and said “Hey, is it cold out or what?” I replied, using my scintillating powers of charm and wit, “Yeah, totally!” Then I blushed. He handed me my change and did the hand cup movement (where you hand the person something with one hand and cup your other hand beneath theirs), smiled, and said “You have a great day today.” I smiled back, a married smile I swear, and said “You too.” And he burst into a huge grin and said “I will! Thanks!”
Then I drove off giggling because I am eight years old.
I think I’m going to have Carissa drive through there with a note saying “Do you think Weetabix is cute?” and there would be two little squares with “Check Box for Yes Or No” written next to it. I mean, I know that nothing can come of my illicit Starbucks Guy fantasy, because damn that Esteban with his sexy tuckus.
For the record, I have been to that Starbucks exactly three times, the first time last Friday and yesterday and then today. Maybe it’s in the Starbucks handbook that employees must be linebacker types who flirt with cute girls with loud cars.
Speaking of cars, the Monte has been bouncing like one of those Lowrider cars so Esteban brought my car in.
I should preface this story by telling you that I am cursed. Part of the reason that I feel guilty about spending hedonistic amounts of cash upon myself and needed permission before I could enjoy it is the fact that every time I have done this in the past, an exponential expense will occur within the next 24 hours, to be equal to or greater than four times the cost of the splurge. Seriously. It’s an unwritten law. Well, it’s not unwritten anymore, since I just wrote about it.
My car needs $800 worth of work. New fat sports car tires (because my fat old tires are apparently bad), struts, tie rods, and other stuff I’ve since blocked out because my brain started going “La la la la!” while Esteban was explaining it. It’s enough to make me cry.
I’m really glad I didn’t get a massage. If I had, my engine would have probably blown up.
