Spas are not places where I feel comfortable. I know that's supposed to be the point of them: soothing, relaxing places where tranquil music plays overhead and comfortable chairs are set around nearby little pitchers of cucumber water and bell jars filled with mini muffins and scones and grapes. It smells heavenly like oranges or pears and expensive creams.
But my problem begins before, when the thought of spending $50 for a pedicure or $125 for a massage makes my stomach lurch. Add on top of that the dressing room where I'm extremely aware of how inadequate I feel about my not-back-to-prepregnancy-form body.
With the help of several of my wonderful book-club friends Christie, Christie, and Amber, I found myself in the dressing room changing into a robe at a local spa, still anxiously aware of my body, Thursday night. The sign "Embrace the silence" scared me as we were escorted in, knowing full well that silence is the antithesis of what my book club is all about. All we do is talk. Talk about books, life, everything.
But we tried to whisper and keep our laughing somewhat stifled. And they let us be a little raucous in the pedicure room, where four stations were set up altogether. The manager did, however, come and close the door. Didn't bother me. It was still relaxing sitting in a room with my friends, having my feet rubbed and soaked and babied.
And I deserved this three months after giving birth, rocking and incessantly feeding a crying baby, and dealing with the death of my father. My husband was on-board and gave me the green flag to leave the kids with him and go, relax, enjoy.
And I did. The four of us had dinner together before slinking into a quiet house at 11. The baby was sound asleep. Eric was waiting up, playing a video game. I sat down beside him and put my feet up on the coffee table next to where his were resting. I took one look at his cracked heels, compared them to my baby-smooth heels, and decided he definitely could use a pedicure.
