Spa Night

Last night, my sister and I went to a spa called Ten Thousand Waves, located in the hills above Santa Fe. The visit was a belated celebration of some recent job opportunities. We began with a long soak in the hot tub, followed by herbal wraps, massages, and salt scrubs. It's called the Buddha package, and when done correctly, you actually relax to such a degree that you attain enlightenment, and then pass out in the shower.

I told my masseuse that she could apply a lot of pressure, a mistake seeing as I think she spent the hour taking out a bad divorce on my back. She did not rub my back; she ransacked it. She pillaged, and then she plundered, and then she set fire to the whole thing. This morning I awoke wondering if I had been in a terrible bar fight that culminated with me being thrown into a juke box. No, just the massage. It hurts to sit down on a couch.

The question has arisen: if it hurt that much, why didn't you just ask her to decrease the level of pressure? I have no answer. At the time, it just seemed like a good idea to let the craftsman do her craft. In hindsight, one quick comment probably could have saved me a day of having to walk slowly and sit gingerly.

Regardless of whose fault it was (yes, I know it was mine),Ten Thousand Waves will now be called Ten Thousand Bruises. My mom calls it Ten Thousand Humiliations since her robe nearly fell off in the lobby during her last visit.