As a treat for my birthday, I accepted a friend’s invite to accompany her to the spa for a hot stone massage. It was something I’d always wanted to try, but either kept forgetting about it or procrastinated setting up an appointment because I wasn’t sure what to expect.
Now, it’s worth mentioning that I’d only had a massage one other time, and it was a deep-tissue one. It was part of a full-day package of spa pampering that Chris had purchased for me the day we got engaged (I will have to tell that story at some point because he did a spectacular job ignoring his twice-a-year romantic overtures rule). Anyway, he didn’t realize it was a deep-tissue massage and I didn’t realize there were so many types – all I heard was “massage” and thought “cool.” Or, as I later amended it: “ouch” and “oh my God, what are you doing with your elbow?”
I was sore for two days.
He’d also neglected to drop a hint that I might want to shave my legs beforehand, but I suppose that would’ve seemed odd coming from him and I’d have known something was up. Still. The spa is one place you definitely want to show up with all your personal particulars taken care of. I kept apologizing to each technician in turn as I made my way around the spa that day, saying I had gotten caught by surprise, but in the end, my explaining did nothing to alleviate the embarrassment factor. (Hey, it was December. And cold. It’s easy to let things go awhile.)
Fast forward to earlier this month and to the assurances that the hot stone variety wasn’t painful; that it was a proper, civilized massage. And fast forward even farther to the end of the massage where I was so blissed out and relaxed that I would have been perfectly happy to remain in that state for perpetuity. Suffice it to say, if you ever get the chance to have a hot stone massage, take it – they are wonderful. The angelic choir is optional.