Spa? Getaway!

One more mindless, meandering musing by alatAl

My husband ‘Tags’ and I are planning a short getaway next week: he’s instructed the tour operator that we’ll be wanting lots of beach, relaxation, and luxury spa treatments for me as part of our vacation retreat. He proudly shows me the tailor-made itinerary he’s lovingly put together for us, and it all sounds absolutely fabulous until I get to the spa part.

I’m all for scented candles and music that sounds like delicate wind chimes that clink clink clink together to make wonderful restful melodies. Dim lights, the sound of waves gently lapping across soft sandy shores as the scent of vanilla and lavender wafts through the air… it’s all good.

Until it comes to the part where you have to erm… disrobe for the masseuse. I’m a prude if there ever was one. Yes I KNOW it’s their job and they’re professional and one bare body is just like the hundreds of others they work on every day. But I have issues: Or maybe I’ve had just one bad experience that’s seared itself into my mind like an overdone steak on a sizzler pan.

Our Spa: Tucked away next to our hotel on a little hill in Kandy, Sri Lanka

Take me to a spa and my mind whisks me away to that one fateful afternoon in Sri Lanka many years ago. It’ll be fun, my friend ‘Pal’ chirped, as our husbands sat sipping Bloody Marys on the beach. I reluctantly agreed, not wanting to leave the country without living the ‘complete’ experience. We walked in, Pal grinning from ear to ear, as we inspected our surroundings. It can’t be that bad, I thought, she’s done this a million times. We get taken to our tiny little holes in the wall and the experience is about to begin.
The kind Sri Lankan masseuse doesn’t even bat an eyelid as she mechanically instructs me with the inevitable: yep, down to the VERY basics please. NOOOOOOOO! “I was told I wouldn’t have to!” I retort and she smiles and says that there’s no way I can get a massage if I’m fully clothed in corduroy jeans, socks, and a full sleeved polo neck jumper.

FINE. Let’s just get this over with. “Do I at least get a towel?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes, smiles, and hands me a withered towel about the size of a paper napkin. F*ck. You MUST be kidding.

LIVE THE EXPERIENCE I tell myself as I hoist myself up on the table. NO. It was not relaxing. I was tense and uncomfortable the whole time wishing that DAMN chiming would stop. The smells of oils and candles had mingled into a cloying stench that made me ill and I just wanted out. With my eyes glued shut, I survived the trauma and was ready for phase two. Relaxing my ass.

Follow me, she says sweetly as she starts to unlock the door…”WHAAAAA???? LIKE THIS?” I ask, dripping in oil with barely a towel maintain my modesty. She rolls her eyes (again, I might add), and hands me 2 more towels. Same size. “Now Come”.

It’s too late, I need to get out, but can’t put my clothes back on cuz I’m a living oil slick, so might as well. I do the best I can (pretty well, too!) with the little I have, slip into my flip flops and flip flop my way to the door. Peep out to ensure there’s no one around, then make a mad dash to the other side of the hall. BAAAAAD MOVE. My feet are so slippery, there’s no traction on the rubber slippers…. And screeeeech, greased frightening! I teeter and swerve, holding on to my cotton serviettes for dear life, as my feet slip out of the flips and I’m flopped on the floor. Sprawled on the stone tiles, a sorry bundle of terry toweling and grease.

THANKFULLY there was no one around, and I manage to heave myself back up before the Sweet Sri Lankan walks in and instructs me to get into a wooden torture device. Or that’s what it looks like… like one of those magic boxes where your head sticks out: on the inside, they turn up the heat and your skin is supposed to infuse with herbs and other ‘goodness’ as the steam opens up your pores… Not too painful, I’m fully covered up and can enjoy this… as long as I don’t think about the hundreds of other people who have sweat in the same wooden box: bacteria must be having a field day in all that humidity. *Shudder*

Twenty minutes in and I’m informed it’s time for my herbal bath: I traipse my way into another room (adjoining this time), blissfully, on my own. It’s a tiny tub filled to the brim with thousands of leafy floating bits, and I’m supposed to FIT INTO THAT!? Yes. Apparently all the clientele are contortionists in their free time. Whatever. I just want out and the only way is to get in.

It’s finally over and dab myself dry with the Kleenex that is my towel. I emerge, hot and bothered but very, very grateful it was over.

Pal emerges fresh, glowing and man, she looks so rested! “How was it?” She beams. “Great, great!” I feign enthusiastically, and repeat the same sentiment to Tags when he asks how much fun I had. “Fantastic! Don’t know why I don’t do it more often!”

It was that very remark that has gotten me into the predicament that I’m currently in now. A spa getaway. Yes I know honesty is often the best way to go, but I don’t have the heart to break his. Who knows, maybe this time it’ll even be fun. But one thing’s for sure. I’m taking my own towels.