Better than Sex

 

At first glance, I’m pretty sure I look like a real girly-girl.  I admit to paying meticulous attention to my public presentation – clothes must fit, hair must be neat and the melasma spots on my cheeks concealed.  And I never leave the house without earrings! 

When it comes to what we women commonly refer to as “pampering”, however, I’m not big on it.  Waiting around in a hair salon while people rearrange and transform their follicles is my idea of torture.  I do it once in a while just to remind myself how much I hate it. I usually go straight home and rewash and restyle my hair after dropping anywhere between $65 and $100, plus tip.  Who needs that?

I can think of at least three times in my life when I have been generously gifted with a certificate for a Spa Day at one of Atlanta’s most chi-chi establishments.  They all expired and went unused.  Did I feel guilty about the big bucks I wasted?  Yes…but not enough to pick up the phone and make the appointments.

A couple of weeks ago my son called and asked how I was feeling.  On that particular day I was literally aching in every joint and muscle in my body.  It didn’t feel like the flu or a cold coming on.  I was just achy – like a person in her very latest 60s will be from time to time.

I must digress from the real purpose of this post to explain that my son, as wonderful as he is, sometimes allows gift-giving events like birthdays and Christmas to sneak up on him.  He never fails to produce something, but it is usually something like flowers and candy and teddy bears; things that can be called in and delivered immediately, if not sooner.

I almost threw the thing in the trash, something I do without opening most of the mail I receive these days.  As I stood over the trash can sorting through the campaign materials someone spent too much money to print and send; the ubiquitous flyers about new gutters and carpet cleaners; the countless catalogs that I am constantly asking retailers not so send; and the birthday card from my mother, something told me to open the substantial high-quality ivory envelope.

My son, in his thoughtful kindness, had sent me a gift certificate for something called a Hot Stone Massage –60 minutes.  The certificate was signed “Happy Birthday” from Stephen.   I was so touched by his attention to my needs.  I was also terrified I would do what I had done so many times before and allow the gift to expire, so I called and made the appointment.   I have just come back from the most blissful hour of my life.

The spa is located on the ground floor of a hugely expensive high-rise condominium in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.  For those who don’t know, Buckhead is like the Beverly Hills of the south.  It is full of people like the Real Housewives of Atlanta.  They have money and time to burn and they spend both freely in hair salons, nail salons, and spas.

From the moment I went through the etched glass doors it was Zen, Zen, Zen.  Music sounding very much like it was being played by Andreas Vollenweider seemed to gently invade my pores.  I could practically feel my blood pressure head downward.

Natalie, my Russian masseuse, spoke in a soft, pleasingly accented voice, suggesting I strip down to my own personal level of comfort, which for me meant buck naked.  She gave me plenty of time to slide into a deliciously clean bed of opulent linens.  I almost fell asleep just waiting for Natalie to return.

I was a bit apprehensive about this hot stone situation.  What was she going to do, place them on my tortured muscles and let them sit there?  Would they be too hot?  Could the heat aggravate my constant companion, Eminess*? We discussed all that and decided to proceed.

Never has an hour gone by so fast.  I had only had deep tissue massages before in my life, so those memories don’t bring nirvana to mind.  They hurt, at times.  This was so totally different, I was transported to a place I have only visited for the brief amount of time spent in the throes of orgasmic ecstasy.  No thoughts about sickness.  No thoughts about politics.  No thoughts about anything except how good I felt, body and soul.  And for an entire hour!

When Natalie stopped rubbing me with massage oil and the heated river stones held in the palm of her hand, she covered my body with a damp heated blanket.  I could have slept there for the rest of the day and night.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t part of the gift, so I had to find the strength to arise from the table and re-dress my painless and seemingly boneless body.

I have no idea how much that transcendent sixty minutes cost my son, but I’m pretty sure I can’t afford to do that regularly.  I’ll have to remember to complain about my aches and pains a little before Christmas.  Who knows?  Maybe Santa Stephen will read my mind again.

 

* Eminess is my “pet name” for Multiple Sclerosis