If I monitored my cranial chatter like Al Qiada at the state department, I'd have to say we're at the orange alert level. My own amusing dialog, silent entertainment, unhindered by complete thought processing or political correctness has gone wild.You're mother probably told you- "Don't say anything if you can't say something nice." Those are really good words to live by especially if you ever visit an extremely overpopulated day spa.
I gulped back lots of thoughts that could have easily become words. Not only words, but left unfiltered some really snap one-liners, and brilliant cutting-edge fashion critique. The scenes still burnt on my retinas came with subtitles, and dubbed with involuntary gasping sound effects.
An overpopulated day spa. I'm not sure you can fully picture it or appreciate it without contrast. Go to any spa website and you'll see the epitome of serenity. Sparkling glass-like water with the slightest rippling born from the perfectly pedicured toe of a lone goddess draped at water's edge with arched back and eyes closed. Every body part angled, curved, cut, bronzed and barely swathed in designer labeled strings and triangles. Not another soul in sight. The mere setting evokes the scent of plumeria and coco-butter. You picture yourself there, possessing that body, silently floating off in undisturbed quiet meditation.
Wrong- Try bulges, rolls, dimples, tattoos, and hairy parts, in every color imaginable. The pool- surface obliterated by a flotilla of deformed overstuffed sausages adrift on aqua-colored sponge mats. Over-stretched lycra, sarongs, thongs, and makeshift cover-ups blur the eye. The ear is distracted by squishing flip-flops, slapping flab, blasting hairdryers, and the cash register ringing up the exorbitant bill. Quaking, quivering, involuntary dermal-mobilitus (a word I've just created) would register a good 7.8 on the Richter scale, especially at ground zero- Massage Hut #2.
This spa is famous for it's mud. No- this isn't where you immerse yourself in a deep gleaming porcelain tub with fresh cucumber slices over your eyes and pristine turban to protect your hair. It's a scene out of Animal Planet were the Kalahari drought has reduced the only watering hole in all of Africa to a pit of clay smeared elephants and hippos playing slip and slide.
American's aren't used to nudity. Even though we are the world's greatest purveyors of sex and porn, we're still uncomfortable when faced with it in the flesh. Maybe it's because we're fast becoming the world's fattest nation. Which brings me to the locker room. They freak me out, especially when they're so overcrowded you can't open your locker without someone's bare ass pushed right in your face.
Now I'm not saying I didn't have several rolls and dimples of my own to add to the party. In fact a lot of my inner dialog was a stiff dose of self-loathing. Last year's $100 designer swimsuit was now obviously 2 sizes too small. My inner-thighs and inner-thoughts now match; grossly overindulged masses of insanity. But I guess like all the other (self talk here-) "poor slobs" I have to put it aside and just enjoy myself as is.
Don't get me wrong, I had a very nice time. My face is radiant after a piercingly refreshing facial. Ouch- those extractions hurt. My body feels like the marshmallow it looks like (pure white and disgustingly soft) after my 1 hour massage, (the best I ever had, thank you Dharma's twin.) I enjoyed a delicious lunch and dinner with two of my favorite people. And a fun day of "un"forgetable sights, sounds, and secret narrative.
