No - not those electronic things.
The Current Mrs L and I have just returned from a break. After the fire, Mrs L was struck down by a mystery infection, the pool pump went on strike before blowing up, and the washing machine started migrating across the utility room, requiring new shock absorbers.
It felt time to get away.
I booked in for a couple of nights at a luxury hotel and spa down on the coast. After an afternoon by the pool and a nice supper, next day we were scheduled for aromatherapy massages. At the Spa reception I was presented with a robe, towel, slippers and a small plastic packet.
Regular readers will know that I’m losing weight at the moment. Seventeen kilos so far. Not yet half way to my target. I’ve gone from a XXL to XL, and moving closer to L. I slipped on the robe, which must have been a roomy medium at best. I looked like a bowling ball in a tuxedo. Not a great look, and it didn’t fill me with positive happy thoughts. Then, I opened the plastic packet.
Oh.
Disposable briefs. A sort of elasticated, open tea bag.
Dutifully, I slipped into the ill-fitting black mesh held together by white elastic.
A black mesh pouch framed by an open bathing gown.
Lovely.
I was now feeling self-conscious, stupid and overweight. I couldn’t wait to get the whole thing over with. I suspect this wasn’t the feeling and ambiance that the spa was aiming for. I daresay it’s not a mental image that you’re enjoying much, either.
Still. I survived. (I hope you do, too.)
The following day, I was scheduled for a cleansing anti-ageing facial treatment.
“Would you like a robe?” “No.” It came out a little more assertively than I’d intended.
“As part of of our summer offer, as well as the facial treatment there will be a complimentary shoulder and neck massage.”
As long as nobody was forcing me into black mesh underwear, I was open to this, the therapist would just have to cope with me in boxer shorts.
Now - this therapist, a Lithuanian called Agnes, had a real dislike of tension and knots. And for a slight woman, boy, did she pack a punch. That was a powerful massage, followed by the gentle application of powders, creams and potions, which I’m assured were very good for my skin. I felt like a million dollars.
Learning
For Me: I’m the customer. If I want to maintain a degree of autonomy in my sartorial choices, I should.
Aromatherapy massage? Not for me. Let the therapist be the therapist and hunt down the tension.
Lotion and potions. You know what, it was great. Why? To be honest, it was delightfully intimate. I don’t mean in an arousing, sexual way - but in having another person gently and diligently apply creams and treatments to my face. It made me feel cared for. It was lovely.
For the spa:
If you want people in robes, then cater to all sizes. If you’re interested in my wellbeing, don’t make me feel like crap before you even start. Make it clear that the pretend undies are an option if you worry about massage oil ruining your expensive designer underwear, but if you’re happy in your own kit, stay in it.
Note to Director, some bloke pretending to be Aztec and blowing with all his might down some pipes is fine, every now and again. But incessantly? Come on - there’s lots of soothing music out there.
