Maybe this is why the wife has been gently nudging me to use that spa gift certificate she gave me for Christmas.
I used to frown upon men who embraced the spa experience. I thought of them like I think about vegans or people who can't wait for Sarah Jessica Parker's next movie. There's just something off about them.
But when I had my first spa day a few years ago, it changed my life. I now look forward to cucumber water and slippers that don't fit.
Sure there have been awkward moments at the spa: the smiling, hirsute gentleman in the sauna; the guy who was just a little too comfortable walking around without his robe on. There have been overly chatty masseuses, and the one who slapped the soles of my feet sharply and repeatedly like a boxer hitting a speed bag. When she did that, a small, girly, chirp came out of me, which I fear she took as a compliment.
But there have been the memorable ones too. Like the time I was in Bangkok and got a traditional Thai massage. No, not that one. Get your mind out of the gutter. A real massage. A short, stout and respectable lady walked on my back and drove her stubby fingers deep into every muscle of my body for two relentless hours for the equivalent of $10.
So, since I've had all this pent-up frustration and malaise lately, I went to Organic Spa in Burbank last week in hopes that they may be able to squeeze the sludge out of my system.
A calm and peaceful gentleman, sensing my negative energy, ushered me immediately to the quiet zone. There, my mind and body atwitter with restless nerves, I noticed that the quiet zone isn't exactly quiet. The lulling tones of some Ravi Shankar Muzak wafted down upon me from unseen speakers. The dim lights began to seduce my weathered soul into tranquillity. I closed my eyes and began to relax ever so slightly.