Sunday, October 9, 2011

Day Spa Deliberations...

So I have just emerged from a day spa on Koh Samui, Thailand – one regularly touted in the Conde Naste top 10 world spas - and have come to the conclusion that maybe the whole spa gig is not for me. Trust me, I have given it a red-hot crack and will undoubtedly continue to do so just to make sure, but overall I find the whole master/servant thing a little unsettling.

Day spas are meant to take you places – a relaxing journey for the mind, body and soul. But for the therapist, it’s just a job and you the equivalent Monday morning meeting. So do you know what my journey turns into? It's all unanswered questions. I start wondering if the therapist had breakfast. Is she saving for a trip? Compiling a mental to-do list perhaps… … Do the shopping, pick up the dry cleaning, then holy hell would you check out the cellulite all over this ass, it’s like a white chocolate aero bar... shit must try and get to the gym on the way home.

Other than mentally confirming for me that said ass is beyond help, I feel there is not a salary in the world high enough to justify touching a stranger’s feet and/or rubbing and scrubbing their backs and upper thighs with treatment creams that actually don’t do a thing for (a) cellulite (b) circulation or (c) your soul. 

And f&*k me – those weird tissue paper harry-high-pant undies you are often forced to wear are far more intrusive and uncomfortable than the therapists hands or that weird ‘women checking out other women with their kit off’ thing that goes on in such centres of wellness.

FYI these are not an actual sample from my spa experience - its a product sample from 

I know this spa-induced vitriol probably has you thinking I am somewhat unbalanced but join me comrades, isn’t it time they provided a light refreshment? Spa menus are all the rage – it’s such a glorious way to overcharge for vegetables - so I am baffled as to why it’s kept separate from the actual (gasp) spa.

If they can turn over food on a 40-minute flight why are spa peeps going without when any decent treatment for (a) cellulite (b) circulation and (c) your soul is at least 2 hours long? If I am going to emerge from that funny massage bed with my face looking like it has been smashed by a doughnut then I dunno – maybe give me a doughnut. And if a shot of espresso is out of the question, I’m so freakin parched/hungry/weirded-out I’ll take one of your green wheat grass numbers.  Or just be a doll, and pass me a juice. (Keep your spirolina).

Seriously it’s an untapped market, spa snacks. How much more fun would it be if instead of staring into a bowl of flowers while they pummel your woman flesh they floated apples in the water. Then we could pretend to play 'bobbing for fruit' like a carny at the fair and get $2 off the bill at the end. Hilarious. And instead of the thimble of herbal tea presented on one of those dinky little trays in the resting area, what's wrong with a wee buffet?

Oh, and did I mention my therapist farted mid deep tissue maneuver? I can confirm this did nothing for my (a) cellulite or (b) circulation, but it did very nearly crush (c) my soul. 

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