I have just come home from an Endota
spa treatment and I can’t believe how fucking awkward I am. This is the second such experience in the
past year.
In August last year, I decided to
have my 1 hour massage on my birthday.
This sounds like a great idea but it was only months after my father
passed away and being my first birthday without him, I discovered as I sat in
the waiting room filling in the sheet and ticking the “no talking’ box that I
was feeling teary and sad. We started
with a foot bath and I felt like I was going to cry so I started to talk. I didn’t stop babbling until the whole hour
was up and I realised that I had completely fucked up the experience. I basically wasted my one hour massage because
I talked through the whole thing. The
poor girl working on me must have been so confused and weirded out. I am sure it must be noted on my file
somewhere and that they draw straws when my name comes up for a treatment. After today, there’s possibly a red flag.
So today I decided to use my foot
treatment well before any occasions that could ruin it. Before any such
treatment, one goes a little stir crazy in the bathroom. Considering I was getting a foot treatment
with a pedicure, you’d think I’d just turn up and let them do their thing. No, I waxed and plucked every visible hair on
my legs (and those three Maria hairs on my big toes), removed my nail polish
which had been there for 2 months and had resulted in a discolouration stain on
my nails, cut the nails and almost took an angle grinder to them to ensure she
didn’t think I had horse hooves in my shoes.
Finally, I was ready. I had convinced
myself that I can actually turn up to the spa and relax and enjoy the treatment
without being weird…I was wrong.
From the get go, it was awkward
because it involves me. I turn up at the
exact time of my booking, even though I was asked to turn up 5 minutes early. Some old bag driving a roller skate for a car
pulled out of a side street and almost collected the car in front of me and we
all slammed on our brakes. She managed
to see him seconds before impact but this was a sweat inducing incident for me because
I am currently in a loan car from the panel-beating workshop who is fixing my
dinged-up car at the moment. We then had
to wait for the bloke to get out of his car and give old Blue Rinse a piece of
his mind. His point was moot (or mute?) because
she was a deaf as a post and all but put a trumpet to her ear after winding her
window down at the pace of a weed smoking snail. I could hear her from my car saying
“Pardon? What’s that?” I watched him gesticulating in front of the
woman, agitatedly tapping his toe on the asphalt and clenching his butt cheeks in
an effort to control his ire. She was
nodding at him, like she understood, but I’m reasonably sure none of it went
into her head because she’s extremely old and shouldn’t be on the road – she
should be sitting in a wing chair knitting scarves and crocheting doilies. The guy eventually gave up because she was
nodding when she should have been answering his questions, so he got in his car
and did a burn out when he took off.
This took about seven minutes out of my life that I will never get
back. By the time I parked and walked to
the spa, the five minute early arrival was gone. The cheery girl behind the counter greets me
with, “Oh hello Donna, thank you for coming in early.”
Instead of politely nodding at her, I
feel the need to state, “I didn’t come in early, I am at the exact time of my
treatment.” This was supposed to be an
apology but I fear it came out as a correction because she started stuttering
and blushing and I wanted to panic yell at her “Wait a sec, I’ll just start
that again” and then run outside and re-enter the premises and say absolutely
NOTHING. Jesus. I decide to just shut the fuck up and let her
do her job but it’s too late, she’s giggling to cover whatever I made her
feel. Awwww man, I want to go home
already.
She leads me into the waiting area
and tells me my consultant/therapist (I don’t remember what her title is
because I fail to notice the small things) will be with me soon. There are two other people in there and it is
silent except for the ’babbling brook in
a glade’ music getting piped in and the scratching of the pen as the woman
sitting to my left fills out her form.
She is so relaxed and in the zone that she is almost laying across the
couch and I feel spa etiquette envy. I
want to talk to fill the void but remember that I am in a spa and I’m supposed
to just shut up so I awkwardly sit perched on the end of the long lounge, which
has too many cushions so I can’t sit back and look cool, and I have to sit on
the end looking like I’m ready to take off at a sprint at any moment…like I
spook easily. My consultant (that’s what
I’ve decided her title is) comes into the room and introduces herself, but of
course I don’t retain her name because I’m stupid. She asks if I have chosen a colour and points
at the array of nail colours on display on the wall in front of me. I want to
slap my forehead because I haven’t noticed them. I didn’t know I was supposed to choose a
colour because the poor girl who was supposed to tell me got all flustered
because I did the weird shit when I first entered the establishment. I am embarrassed that I am wasting her time
and alerting everyone in the waiting room that there is a fuckwit in their
midst so I feel the need to tell my consultant that this is my first time…like
I’m a fucking virgin and she’s about to pop my cherry. I am only thinking this but my face lights up
and I almost give myself awkward burn when I leap up and my bag falls off my
lap and lands with a loud splat on the floor.
This is the exact opposite of how one should conduct one’s self in a spa
waiting area. Oh my fucking God. Then, instead of just picking a colour, I
peruse the display like I’m choosing a new car colour. My brain screams at me to hurry the fuck up
so I reach out and grab a dark maroon colour and knock two other colours off
and onto the floor in the process.
They’re all looking at me and I nearly set fire to my hair with my
face…because it’s so hot with embarrassment.
She apologetically advises me that we’re upstairs. I don’t give a flying fuck where we go, just
get me the hell out of this room with all of these people witnessing and listening
to my weird.
We finally make it up the narrow,
steep staircase and into the designated room.
A relaxing aroma fills my senses and I am finally ready to chill in this
dimly lit room. It is warm and
comfortable and I am excited for my foot spa treatment. She advises me to take my socks and shoes off
and put all of my stuff in the basket on the shelf. The first thing I do is put my handbag in the
basket, which is too small for the suitcase-esque bag I use, and the whole lot
falls to the floor with a thump. I
giggle because I can’t believe I just did that and because I feel like a
dick. I quickly bend over and try to
cover my embarrassment with words. I am
wondering why she is lingering in the room when they usually go outside while I
undress so I whip my shoes and socks off and drop the socks into the basket
(hovered my shoes over the basket before I realised they should go on the floor
– I really shouldn’t be allowed outside of the house). Then I went to my special place…and started
removing my jeans. I got them all the
way to my knees, with my Bridget Jones style leopard print knickered arse up in
the air before she declares in a panic, “Oh, you don’t need to take your jeans
off.” Of course I don’t need to take my
jeans off, she’s doing my feet. What a
fuckwit! I giggle again like I’m five
and hoick my jeans up and wriggle my arse into them. A Play School
She wets my feet and applies an exfoliate,
then rinses them off. I want to groan in
pleasure because her warm hands are magic on my tense feet. I think “Wow this is relaxing” but the words
that come out of my mouth are “Wow, that’s making me feel all floppy.” Wait, what?
Why the fuck did I just say that?
She looks up at me like she thinks I’m a nut bag and I am looking back
at her…because I am a nut bag and she
says “Well that’s good, I guess.” I
watch her finish rubbing and rinsing my feet then choose that time to close my
eyes and relax. A nano-second later she
dries my feet and I have to get up again.
She tells me to lie down on the bed
face up, and she tells me where to put my feet.
I guess she does that because I have proven how fucked in the head I am
and will more than likely lay face down with my jeans around my ankles. She
asks if I am cold but I reply that I’m not too quickly because I’m suddenly
nervous. She walks around the side of
the bed that I am lying on and asks if I would mind removing my glasses as she
wants to apply a lavender-scented towel over my eyes. I whip them off and hand them to her, belting
her in the stomach with them as she tries to pass me. She makes an “Oooof!” sound because I just
punched her in the guts, and I start babbling an apology and the girl is flat
out laughing. She is astounded at my
fuckwitism I start to giggle too because
I am embarrassed by my fuckwitism and can’t believe this shit is
happening. She applies the towel to my
eyes and I sigh in relief and admonish myself, choosing to shut the fuck up
from this moment forward. She starts to
wedge something between my toes and I am waiting for the pain of hyper extended
toes because toe separators are a form of torture. Applying them hurts like a bitch but removing
them after the nails are dry evokes painful “ooh, aah” sounds from me when the
toes are allowed to return to their natural space; the dints take hours to disappear. I don’t feel any pain and think that my nails
will rub and smudge because she hasn’t taken the proper precautions.
She gets to work on my toenails
filing (and I resist the urge to pull my foot away when the pinky is filed),
pfaffs with the cuticles and cleans the bastards right up. I am sure that if I remove the lavender cloth
covering my eyes and sit up, I will hear Angels sing and see a warm glowing radiance
surrounding my toes. Next comes the
massage. Oh my God it feels sooooo damn
good. I have to physically stop myself
from groaning in ecstasy as she firmly runs her thumbs up the underside of my
foot, making me sink into the bed like a dead horse. As she squeezes and pulls my toes, a ‘gdkt’ sound
like cracking knuckles as she squeezes the ends of my toes. It feels almost painful until the ‘gdkt’ and
its ecstasy again. She pulls on my feet and
it tugs up to my hip joints and I’m sure I will be 4 inches taller when it’s
over; it feels amazing. Then she scrubs
the shit out of them as she prepares to paint them. Apart from the croaking frogs and singing
crickets in the rain-forest that is piped into the room, there is silence as she
bends over my toes and paints them. I
get an insane itch on my knee but cannot touch it lest I ruin the pain job. It is all I can do not to twitch and I feel a
film of sweat break out on my forehead.
I am thinking ‘Stupid, itchy knee” then I have to stifle a giggle
because it sounds like I’m counting in Japanese. Then something rolls from somewhere (wasn’t
me, I am the epitome of a statue on the bed) but it makes a loud noise in the
silence and I get such a fright, that I jerk and almost kick her in the mouth. I felt her breath on my toes when I jumped so
I know how close I got giving her a fat lip.
I am trying to stifle a nervous giggle and I can feel myself shaking
with the effort. I feel her hands still
and I know she is looking up at me with a “What the fuck?” look. I bite my lip and pretend to be normal, it
doesn’t come naturally to me. After an
eternity, my nails are complete, she removes the cloth covering my eyes and I
am allowed to sit up, s-l-o-w-l-y. I am
allergic to this pace and almost belt her in the face with my forehead because
I sit up fast. She tells me she will
meet me downstairs but asks if I could please remain in the room (downstairs??)
for five minutes before coming out to reception.
She leaves and I swing my legs over
and make my way over to the basket to retrieve my shit. I have brought thongs along so I won’t fuck
up my nails but when I look down, the toes are separated by a cloth of some
sort and I don’t know what to do. She
didn’t mention the cloth and I’m not sure if my nails are dry enough to remove
the cloth so I stand awkwardly near the door wondering what to do. Was I supposed to wait here for five minutes
or downstairs? I don’t fucking know so I
poke my head outside of the door and look left and right a few times (I possibly
look like Forrest Gump when I do this).
The door next to me opens and the consultant exits and nearly bounces
off my face with her boobs. I get such a
fright at her unexpected arrival on the landing that I try to pull my head in
and close the door at the same time and nearly rip my own ears off. She puts a hand to her beating heart, she got
a fright too, and asks if I’m okay. I
say “she told me to meet her downs stairs but to wait five minutes before going
into reception and I don’t know if I’m waiting here or downstairs.” She frowns at me and does that downward turn
of the mouth thing that conveys “how the fuck should I know?” I make a decision, tell her I’m going to wait
down stairs and she nods, like “fine, just get the fuck out of my face.” So I walk down stairs bare foot with the
fucking material shit still woven between my toes. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to
do. I get downstairs and there is a pregnant woman in the waiting room and she
looks at my feet and back up at me then smiles and offers me a tea. I assume she is wondering about my woven toes
so I just play it cool and pretend it’s normal to be sitting downstairs with
your bag and boots on your lap. The
polish on my toes looks like gel and I am loving the shit out of them. I read a pamphlet to keep up my ‘cool’
persona and notice the polish is for sale.
Gonna get me some of that shit, I decide.
I wait ten minutes and she doesn’t
show so I unwind my toes and slide the thongs on and go out to greet her at
reception. I can’t see a bin so I shove
the material things in my bag. My
consultant is not there. The same poor
bitch is on reception and she gets flustered before I even open my mouth. I tell her I want to purchase the colour used
on my toes and she’s asking me what colour it was. How the fuck would I know? I tell her it’s still upstairs in the
room. A light bulb goes off in her head
and she looks at her screen and finds the colour. She turns around to the rack behind her and
is picking up every colour but the one on my toes. I tell her it’s the one on the end but she
acts like I didn’t speak. I say again.
“It’s the one on the end. The far end…the opposite end.” Dumb fuck must need a hearing aid because
she’s still up the wrong end. My
consultant comes out and plucks the colour from the far end of the rack, like I
fucking told her, and hands it to her.
Her face is flaming but I haven’t said anything so I shut up until she
tells me to pay.
I walk back to the parking lot and
have to sit through 2 sets of lights because even though there were a dozen
people waiting when I got there, nobody thought to press the button. Dicks!
Some bloke in a wheel chairs does a Kamikaze and zooms across the street
when our walk sign should have happened.
He yells at us all standing there like stupefied cows that we have to
press the button. I want to agree with
him but I’m part of the pack and have to shut up and eat shit silently.
When I get to my car, I use the
blipper to open it but when I try to open the door, it doesn’t open. The fuck?
I try again then spy my car four across.
What a tool. I note that some arsehole
has parked so close on the driver’s side that I’m going to need a can opener to
get into the vehicle. I manage to wiggle,
gyrate and squeeze in and almost tear my tits and arse off in the process (bum,
titty, bum, titty, bum, bum, bum), then it takes an eternity to get out without
grazing the cars parked tightly next to me.
I go home and straight upstairs and Miss Marvelous has to endure my
giggles as I relay the events. She
shakes her head and me and says “What the shit is wrong with you?” I don’t know but shit sure does happen to me
a lot.
