to it,
Micah responds.
See, this is why I can’t ever stay mad at him.
—
M Y MOTHER, WHO grew up in North Carolina on the debutante circuit, believes there is nothing a little cuticle softener and eye cream can’t fix. To this end, she is always trying to get me to
take care of myself,
which is code for
try to make an effort to look nice,
which is completely ridiculous, given that I have a small child and about a hundred needy clients at any given moment, all of whom deserve my time more than the hairdresser who could put highlights in my hair.
Last year, for my birthday, my mother gave me a gift I have consciously avoided until today: a gift certificate to a day spa for a ninety-minute massage. I can do a lot in ninety minutes. File one or two briefs, argue a motion, make and feed Violet breakfast, even (if I’m going to be honest) squeeze in a rollicking romp in the sheets with Micah. If I have ninety minutes, the last thing I want to do is spend it naked on a table while some stranger rubs oil all over me.
But, as my mother points out, it’s expiring in a week, and I haven’t used it yet. So—because she knows I’m too busy to take care of details like this, she has taken the liberty of booking me into Spa-ht On, a day spa catering to the busy professional woman, or so it says on the logo. I sit in the waiting room until I am called, wondering if they really thought that name through. Spa-ht on? Or Spat on?
Either one sounds unpalatable to me.
I stress about whether or not I am supposed to wear panties under my robe, and then struggle to figure out how to open my locker and secure it. Maybe this is the grand plan—clients are so frustrated by the time they get to the massage that they cannot help but leave in a better state than they started. “I’m Clarice,” my therapist tells me, in a voice as soft as a Tibetan gong. “I’m just going to step out while you get comfortable.”
The room is dark, lit with candles. There is some insipid music playing. I shrug off my robe and slippers and climb under the sheet, fitting my face into the little hole in the massage table. A few moments later, there is a soft knock. “Are we ready?”
I don’t know.
Are
we?
“Now, you just relax,” Clarice says.
I try. I mean, I really do. I close my eyes for about thirty seconds. Then I blink them open and stare at her feet in their sensible sneakers through the face hole of the massage table. Her firm hands begin to run the length of my spine. “Have you worked here a long time?” I ask.
“Three years.”
“I bet there are some clients you walk in and see and wish you didn’t have to touch,” I muse. “I mean, like back hair? Ugh.”
She doesn’t answer. Her feet shift on the floor. I wonder if she’s thinking that I’m one of those clients, now.
Does she really see my body like a doctor would—a slab to be worked upon? Or is she seeing the cellulite in my ass and the roll of fat that I usually hide under my bra strap and thinking that the yoga mom she rubbed down last hour was in much better shape?
Clarice, wasn’t that the name of the girl from
Silence of the Lambs
?
“Fava beans and a nice Chianti,” I murmur.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, my chin mashed into the massage table. “Hard to talk in this contraption.” I can feel my nose getting stuffy. When I lie facedown like this too long, that happens. And then I have to mouth-breathe and I think that the therapist is listening and sometimes I even drool through the hole. More reasons I don’t like massages.
“Sometimes I think about what would happen if I got into a car crash and was stuck upside down like that,” I say. “Not in the car, you know, but at the hospital in one of those neck braces that get screwed into your skull so that your vertebrae don’t shift? What if the doctors flipped me onto my belly, and I got congested like I am right now and couldn’t tell them? Or if I was in that kind of coma where
Micah responds.
See, this is why I can’t ever stay mad at him.
—
M Y MOTHER, WHO grew up in North Carolina on the debutante circuit, believes there is nothing a little cuticle softener and eye cream can’t fix. To this end, she is always trying to get me to
take care of myself,
which is code for
try to make an effort to look nice,
which is completely ridiculous, given that I have a small child and about a hundred needy clients at any given moment, all of whom deserve my time more than the hairdresser who could put highlights in my hair.
Last year, for my birthday, my mother gave me a gift I have consciously avoided until today: a gift certificate to a day spa for a ninety-minute massage. I can do a lot in ninety minutes. File one or two briefs, argue a motion, make and feed Violet breakfast, even (if I’m going to be honest) squeeze in a rollicking romp in the sheets with Micah. If I have ninety minutes, the last thing I want to do is spend it naked on a table while some stranger rubs oil all over me.
But, as my mother points out, it’s expiring in a week, and I haven’t used it yet. So—because she knows I’m too busy to take care of details like this, she has taken the liberty of booking me into Spa-ht On, a day spa catering to the busy professional woman, or so it says on the logo. I sit in the waiting room until I am called, wondering if they really thought that name through. Spa-ht on? Or Spat on?
Either one sounds unpalatable to me.
I stress about whether or not I am supposed to wear panties under my robe, and then struggle to figure out how to open my locker and secure it. Maybe this is the grand plan—clients are so frustrated by the time they get to the massage that they cannot help but leave in a better state than they started. “I’m Clarice,” my therapist tells me, in a voice as soft as a Tibetan gong. “I’m just going to step out while you get comfortable.”
The room is dark, lit with candles. There is some insipid music playing. I shrug off my robe and slippers and climb under the sheet, fitting my face into the little hole in the massage table. A few moments later, there is a soft knock. “Are we ready?”
I don’t know.
Are
we?
“Now, you just relax,” Clarice says.
I try. I mean, I really do. I close my eyes for about thirty seconds. Then I blink them open and stare at her feet in their sensible sneakers through the face hole of the massage table. Her firm hands begin to run the length of my spine. “Have you worked here a long time?” I ask.
“Three years.”
“I bet there are some clients you walk in and see and wish you didn’t have to touch,” I muse. “I mean, like back hair? Ugh.”
She doesn’t answer. Her feet shift on the floor. I wonder if she’s thinking that I’m one of those clients, now.
Does she really see my body like a doctor would—a slab to be worked upon? Or is she seeing the cellulite in my ass and the roll of fat that I usually hide under my bra strap and thinking that the yoga mom she rubbed down last hour was in much better shape?
Clarice, wasn’t that the name of the girl from
Silence of the Lambs
?
“Fava beans and a nice Chianti,” I murmur.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Sorry,” I mutter, my chin mashed into the massage table. “Hard to talk in this contraption.” I can feel my nose getting stuffy. When I lie facedown like this too long, that happens. And then I have to mouth-breathe and I think that the therapist is listening and sometimes I even drool through the hole. More reasons I don’t like massages.
“Sometimes I think about what would happen if I got into a car crash and was stuck upside down like that,” I say. “Not in the car, you know, but at the hospital in one of those neck braces that get screwed into your skull so that your vertebrae don’t shift? What if the doctors flipped me onto my belly, and I got congested like I am right now and couldn’t tell them? Or if I was in that kind of coma where
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