A New Experience

Just after 12:30 pm on Friday, as my daughter, her boyfriend, and I made a quick stop at home in between dental work and running some errands, there was an event unlike any I've ever experienced before: a significant and palpable change in atmospheric pressure and and a deafening "WHUMP-Whump" sound that shook my home to its foundation and, in my soldier's mind, could only mean one thing.

My ears ringing, I ran out the front and my daughter's boyfriend ran out the back, looking for the tell-tale cloud of debris and smoke that would signal the instant revamping of my humble abode from single-family dwelling to impenetrable fortress. I wondered if I had stored enough water.

No further compression blasts occurred and there was nothing we could see that indicated the event had happened at all. Nothing on the radio, no neighbors standing outside in confusion and panic. We were, shall we say, nonplussed.

Later, to my delight and embarrassment, I found that the sound and incredible compression that we had experienced was the result of this:



The re-entry of the Space Shuttle Atlantis just before its crippled landing at Edwards AFB at 12:49.

I wish I had known before, as I could have enjoyed the moment for what it was. But even now... how cool is that???????????????????????????

Ungirly

The latest installment in the chronicles of my complete failure as a woman: my birthday.

My kids got me a body wrap for Mother's Day, so I took the opportunity (since I had the day off) to schedule it for my birthday. While I was at it, I figured I better get a facial (in honor of No-Picking June) and why not throw an eyebrow wax/shaping in as well?

These are things that women do. So I'm told.

The body wrap is advertised as a de-stressing, de-toxifying, inches-eradicating service that takes 2+ hours to complete. The facial was engineered specifically for my aging, but still acne-prone and oily skin. The eyebrow waxing was guaranteed to give me movie-star brows and take ten years off my face. The total package (including the wrap) cost more money than I want to disclose.

Being a stranger to the day spa, I wasn't really sure what to expect. I was led through posh, though rather contrived, spaces to a small changing room where I was instructed to disrobe and don a fluffy white robe and some sort of polyfiber slippers. Then I sat, self-consciously, on a floral settee until approached by the woman who held the next three hours of my destiny in her hands.

She told me her name - it begins with an M - but her Slavic accent was so rich that I could not catch it, nor most of what she said thereafter. She led me to a small room that was nearly filled by a huge tub. She offered me a bottle to sniff and asked (presumably) if the scent was acceptable for my bathing pleasure. I smiled and nodded, and she indicated that I should hang my robe and enter the tub. When I did, M was in such a hurry to cover my nakedness that I thought she was bum's rushing me and I almost clocked her. Turns out she wasn't attacking me, but holding a towel over my ass while I climbed the three stairs that would get me into the tub. I was amused.

This brings us to the highlight of my spa day: I've haven't been able to immerse my whole body in a tub since I was a kid. This tub was easily seven feet long.

The effort to protect my modesty - oh ha ha - continued, as M tucked a towel over my exposed breasts. Though still amused, already the modesty thing was getting tedious. Apparently day spas are not into the more holistic views regarding body services, as in the concept that continuity is the name of the healing game. I'm all for draping, but this was getting ridiculous! Then she flipped the switch.

The tub erupted with air and I hurriedly figured out what the rails on the side and bottom of the tub were for. The force of the air bubbles probably would have ejected me from the tub altogether if I hadn't been hanging on for dear life. M smiled and whispered something unintelligible, leaving me alone with the tub, the towel, and the rails of salvation.

After about 20 minutes of being buffeted about like a small boat in a big storm, M reappeared and helped me out of the tub, again trying to help me down the stairs with one hand while ludicrously trying to shield herself from my nakedness with the other. She left me alone to towel off and robe up, then returned to lead me to another small room, lit with candles. Musical ambiance was provided by a small BOSE CD player in the corner. I was instructed to disrobe again, and then don some disposable underpants and cover my breasts with a small towel. I would describe the underpants, but they defy description.

M began oiling the exposed parts of my body with a heated oil that contained essences of lemon, juniper, and geranium while I held the towel over my chest. When it came time to apply the oil to my chest area, she just lifted the top of the towel away from my body slightly and dumped about a quart of the oil down my chest and abdomen. Then she instructed me to dip my hands in the oil and apply it between my legs. She said something about "lymph nodes" at this point. I just did what I was told. M placed a wet, thick, hot towel on the pre-prepared table and instructed me to lie down. I did, and M fussed about me a bit, placing rolled up hot towels under my knees and adjusting my pillow. Then she placed another wet, hot towel over the top of me and proceeded to wrap me up in the sixteen layers of sheets, blankets, thermal NASA blankets, and plastic that had been layered on the table prior to my arrival. I was mummified.

And she left me there. For a REALLY long time.

My skin began to tingle and I began to sweat profusely. The New Age piano music in the background became annoying (the pianist had a thing for the low E flat and I was getting sick of the vibration), and then it became unbearable. After about ten minutes, I was terribly uncomfortable and my skin felt like it was on fire. After about 20 minutes, I became seriously claustrophobic and had to do combat deep breathing to keep from completely freaking out. After about 30 minutes, M finally reappeared and caught me trying to escape my bizarre and sweaty prison by trying to disengage the layers of plastic and fabric by holding the edges in my teeth and tossing my head to either side.

I was again towelled off and then instructed to use the bathroom while M changed the table in preparation for my "Salt Glow" treatment, which entailed having my body scrubbed raw with a fragrant lotion infused with salt crystals. Each part of my body was done seperately, so I got to anticipate the next siege while M was busy draping and undraping each body part in the ongoing don't-worry-I-can't-see-your-flaws towel project. The modesty thing was becoming less and less amusing and more and more frustrating. Needless to say, my breasts did not get the "Salt Glow" treatment, regardless of whether or not they were actually in need of exfoliation. My breasts also did not get after-exfoliation moisturizer, which I found to be rather discriminatory.

So, dead skin cells eradicated and lymph nodes detoxified - except for my breasts, of course! - I emerged, once again in my robe, to wait dutifully in the sitting room and drink water until my esthetician was ready for me. She floated in, all glowing skin and youth, and introduced herself as Carolina (Car-o-LEE-na). Carolina led me into another small room lit with candles, and instructedme to rub a ping-pong ball sized dollop of lotion onto my hands, then dip them twice into a vat of heated paraffin wax. Then she wrapped my hands up in plastic bags and covered them with little terrycloth mittens (matching accessories for my robe). I assumed that the spa people had figured out that I am a beauty insurgent and decided not to take any more chances with escape attempts, possibly by brute force. Then I was directed to another table, this time more like a dentist's chair. I was allowed to keep my robe on this time, which saved me from any more misplaced protection of my perceived nude vulnerability.

First came the eyebrow waxing and shaping. Carolina carefully applied wax, waited a few seconds, then rubbed strips of muslin over the wax. Then she yanked it off, complete with offensive eyebrow hairs that had the audacity to grow in unappealing and un-movie-starlike places. She also yanked off strips of my skin just under the browline. Of course, I didn't know that until later. I now look like I've gone a few rounds with Rocky Balboa ("Cut me, Mick! Both sides!"), but my eyebrows are a lovely shape.

Carolina then proceeded to cleanse, exfoliate, oxygenate, excavate, and hydrate my face. She used the products formulated for oily skin, which burned my newly denuded browline like napalm. If I was bleeding from my missing skin, she didn't mention it. Somewhere in the middle of all of this, she unwrapped my hands and removed the paraffin from my hands with a smooth degloving motion that was rather eerie. I sensed that freedom was near. It was.

As Carolina led me back to the changing room, she advised me that I needed to take some of the napalm home with me for "interim home use." She graciously offered to leave the products at the check-out desk for my inspection and purchase. Poor Carolina assumed that I'd actually return someday for further abuse! Why, you ask?

Because that's what women do.

I paid for my services and tipped M and Carolina well for their sadism. Then I went home and paraded around the house naked for a couple of hours, just to feel human again.

Once again, I've failed Girl School. Other women RAVE about spa services, about being fussed over and "pampered" and beautified. I just feel silly that I spent an exhorbitant amount of money and time to walk out no different than I went in, with the glaring exception of the twin gaping wounds over my eyes, which I could have gotten easily in any sparring match in any mat room in the locality and come out feeling like I accompished something. I also feel terrible that my girls wanted me to have something relaxing and wonderful for my Mother's Day gift and I had to tell them that being mummifed for 30 minutes stressed me out more than I already was.

Ungirly. I guess I should just accept it.