Making lists of spring cleaning chores to get the house, the yard, and my car cleaned up for summer, and it made me wonder why I wasn’t doing the same for ME. I looked down at my body and peered into the mirror at my face, and decided I needed the same summer tune-up the rest of my life got every spring. I’ve got more miles on me than my car, so if IT needed help, God knows I did. Called up a local spa and booked a 5-hour “Rejuvenation Package” for half a month’s salary, promising to put the glow back in my face and the shimmy back in my shaker.
When I arrived, I was ushered into the softly lit back room, with the sounds of baby whales and lightly cascading waterfalls in the background. I was handed a plush, soft terrycloth robe (I’m SO taking this home) and instructed to leave my clothes and personal belongings with Brooke, who would store while I was having my “experience.”
First stop was the Weigh-In room. Since I ALWAYS weigh in naked (do you know how many pounds clothes can add? Or sneakers? Or hair gel?), I balked, not ready for Helga to see what I don’t show the neighbors. If I’d have know then what I would know 5 hours later, when Helga would know more about me than Kenny did, I would have dropped that robe and stepped up without a backward glance. At that moment, however, I still had a shred of dignity intact. That wouldn’t last.
Next stop, the Mud Bath. Large vats of, well…mud, that I was instructed to sit in (yes, still naked) to “detoxify” my pores and rid my body of poisons from my recent trip to The Burrito Palace and last night’s second bottle of wine. 20 minutes later, I may be detoxed, but I’ve got mud in places Helga was never going to get it out of, and we headed for the Wrap Room.
Helga raved about the youthful properties of the seaweed wrap, designed to “sweat out impurities and excess water” (maybe it’ll get to that leftover mud, but I’m not sure God himself could find it at this point), while she proceeded to paint me in green gunk which I assumed was the “seaweed” portion of the seaweed wrap, then tightly wrappeded me in giant sheets of saran wrap until I look like a shrink-wrapped bratwurst. She helped me lie down, then dimmed the lights and told me she’d return in 30 minutes. It was at this point I realized I had to pee.
I’m not talking “Gee, at the next gas station, could you pull over?” kind of have-t0, but the “I’ve got to pee RIGHT FREAKING NOW” kind of have-to. I looked frantically around the room for a bell or some way to call her back, but the door was shut tight and I was sucked tight as a Space Saver bag, so I did the only thing I could. I peed. In the seaweed wrap. What the hell, there was at least 4 pounds of sweat and impurities already inside the damn thing, just waiting to be hosed off. If Helga knew, she never mentioned it. She’s so getting a big tip.
Next up, the Waxing Room. Helga laid out half a dozen paint brushes, then brushed hot wax on my eyebrows and upper lip. A minute or so later, she rips my tiny hairs out by their screaming follicles, and repeats the process on my legs. (Apparently youth is best exhibited by one’s resemblance to a hairless cat.) Then I saw her eyeing my lady parts. Oh, hell no. Since I haven’t worn a bikini in roughly 3 decades, and I’m never planning to go to Brazil, I told her to just get that thought out of her mind.
After the facial (an hour of Helga glaring at my pores through a 5000x magnifier, “tsk, tsk’ing” while she attacked them with a tiny weed whacker), and the mani/pedi (pumicing so much skin off my feet, I felt like I’d been on a Tony Robbins fire walk), we were done.
Helga was right. I did look 5 years younger, and I positively glowed in the dark. I figure if I do this 7 more times, I’ll look 20 years old. I might have to rethink that Brazilian bikini wax after all.