Two days ago, a friend forwarded me an email she'd received from a local spa announcing Spa Week and all the specials therein. Last week was very busy, and as I'd just finished the baby shower gig, I wasted approximately zero seconds in calling to schedule two appointments: a "stress melter" treatment (irresistible sounding, yes?); and a facial. I have felt like an acne-prone handbag lately so felt certain some exfoliation and extraction would be tremendously beneficial; at the least perhaps I'd look all shined up. Anyway, today was the day. It's pouring brickbats here and I was up for nearly two hours last night for no good reason so felt pretty jazzed about "having" to spend two hours at the spa.

The facial was great, I could tell that gal was extracting to beat sixty, and for the first time in accessible memory, my skin literally did shine -healthily- when I left.

Now the stress melter treatment...well, let's just say I didn't sign up for a next session.

If you feel that being slathered with shea butter, wrapped in plastic, and cocooned claustrophobically in more plastic + what felt like a rug sounds like it would immediately melt away all anxiety and tension like butter in a hot skillet, then you are not me. I felt rather like I was in a body bag. The get-up even crinkled when I moved in the way body bags in movies always crackle when paramedics hoist them up and around. Can you imagine if I'd had gas?

This is not to say that I didn't enjoy being forced to lie on a table in a dark room with music that wished it were Enya playing softly in the background. I did. But I did have to actively try to zen out so I didn't instead feel my throat constricting in a somewhat anaphylactic way.

You win some, you lose some. I'm definitely in much better shape than I was this morning, and I still had time for leftover spinach pie and olive oil cake from last night. Nice!