Karen asked me the other day if I'd ever been to the Sava Spa, across the street from my apartment. Her inquiry got me to reminiscing (for lack of a better word) about spas and my general aversion to them.
I have been to three spa/salon type places. In reverse order, both chronologically and intensity of horribleness, they are as follows.
3) One of my best friends got married in May of 2006. The day before said wedding, for which I had the honor of being a bridesmaid, all of us bridal party women folk got our nails done. My feet are ticklish, so that was kind of funny. And the woman who did my manicure laughed at the gnawed-on state of my fingernails and kept stopping to answer the phone. (The wedding itself was lovely, though!)
2) One of ex-boyfriend Chris's cousin's got married back in November of 2005. It was a black tie affair. Pedicures were strongly suggested. I'd never had one before and didn't particularly want one. Have I mentioned I have ticklish feet? And the gentleman doing mine was shocked at my hairy legs. It was rather embarrassing and merely reinforced the notion that I am just not cut out for these girlish things.
1) Over spring break one year, back in those distant college days, I went to visit a friend who'd had to leave school the year before due to some mental health issues. Turns out the girl was still a little crazy, manifested in her unshakable belief that yours truly was none other than the Messiah. Really. Over the course of the visit she gave me a black leather jacket (literally the clothes off her back), kept insisting on buying me things ('offerings'), took me to her favorite spa for a facial (all the while explaining to the staff my exalted status), hit a bicycle delivery man with her car (my status further cemented by the fact that the poor man got up, shook himself off, and rode off into the night), and got into a heated argument with another friend's mother (the wife of a rabbi, as it happened) about the second coming of our lord & savior while I hid in the bathroom. Needless to say, the weekend was cut short when I fled back to my blessedly solitary Barnard dorm room. Last I heard, she was getting married and training to be a dental hygienist.
So no, I have not been to nor do I have any intention, ever, of going to this new-fangled spa in my ever-gentrifying neighborhood. I can only begin to imagine how much it is just not for me.
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