A Day at the Spa! A Note From Jan

Sunny outside. Inside, too. Heather and I were heading to Calistoga, a town famous for its hot springs

While Chad built a snow fort for Maggie and Kate back home, Heather booked “treatments” at the spa for us, a requirement for use of the mineral baths. They were having a mid-week, mid-winter special. But I wonder: Can these people really write or say “winter” without doubling over in laughter?!

After eating an early lunch outside on a porch in Yountville, we drove on to Calistoga.

Arrived at the springs and parked near the building marked SPA. After scanning the area, watching folks coming and going, I felt like a beached whale among a sea of mermaids. Stretched my neck to add height, sucked in my stomach and proceeded behind fit and toned Heather to the registration desk. We were handed tickets to the pool area and robes to roam around in. Trust me, I didn’t go far afield.

Once in the changing area, I began having flashbacks to junior high gym daze. Where did all these well-formed, fit folks come from? Must’ve been living under a patch of lettuce leaves. I unwrapped the robe and realized, once again, that one-size-fits-all remains a myth perpetrated by designers with disorders.

After sucking in all cooperative parts, I stretched the belt and knotted it with only air to spare around my, um, waist…a word I haven’t used in awhile. While the robe was made for a preteen, the flip-flops fit Goliath. I grabbed a paperback romance (I’d already lost all shame) and flip flopped to a nearby patio where Heather waited, reading a food magazine while sipping cucumber water.

Heather made the spa reservations from home, choosing a mud bath for herself and a Swedish massage for me. At that moment, I’d have preferred being up to my neck in mud. At the appointed time, Heather strode off to her appointment while I slunk off to mine.

The massage therapist (afraid to spell masseuse) met me and ushered me into a dimly lit room. Candles flickered, oooie oooie music played, and I felt terribly “unbabdiss” and disrespectful of my tough Norwegian ancestors. Could not picture any of them in an undersized robe about to drop it and crawl under covers on a bed they had not made with sheets they’d not washed and ironed. Yes, ironed!

I didn’t know whether to pray, flee or settle down and take a nap. The woman assigned to do the Swedish massage was about 5 feet tall, had zero body fat, and was topped off with bleached blonde hair, a nod to Sweden, I suppose. Well, “non-refundable” took fleeing off my list of options. That left praying and napping … comfortable with both.

She put a cloth over my eyes to shut out the light, dimmed as it was. Next thing I knew, hands began kneading the back of my neck. That’s when it hit. My monsoon. Jud was my Swedish masseuse. No one knew the back of my neck better than he. And tears rained down.

She paused, then spoke words as oiled as her hands, “Let it out.  Just let it all out.” I thought, “You are not my confessor.  You are not my soul-friend. I’m not even sure of your name.” So I confessed a bit, “I’m a newly minted widow from the greater Boston area.” Then I sucked it up and went back to napping and praying. That kind of confession does little, but little is all I wanted except in the size of the robe I’d been handed.

The massage did me good as did the praying, napping and remembering Jud. After the session finished and she’d stepped out, I wrapped my unrighteous robe around me, slid into the flip-flops and headed back to the changing room to wrestle with my swimsuit. Tough to make massaged muscles behave. What had been unflappable, hung contented, oiled and rested. Thankfully, the oil helped me slip into the suit.

Once at the pool, I slipped into the water and bobbed to the surface. Buoyant’s my thing. Floating about in warm water when gratitude surfaced. Thankful for a daughter who thought up this outing in the first place. Thankful for humor. Thankful for one piece swimsuits. Thankful for hot springs in February. I don’t deserve any of this pampering but it sure felt good for a day, with the exception of too few like-bodied women around. This place lacks diversity! Does no one value “squishy” out here besides my grandchildren!?

Ater the sun set, Heather and I headed home, stopping for dinner at Gott’s in St. Helena, a roadside, fifties kind of burger and healthy food eat-outside place. Heather ordered fish tacos and I, attempting to be a good girl, a salad. Having spent the better part of the day among the lettuce ladies, I felt it was my only way to identify with them. Part way into the salad, I muttered something about some day I’d get the courage to order a burger at this place. I’d even be willing to scrap the bun and wrap it in lettuce leaves! Next thing I knew, “saint” Heather, daughter of “saint” Jud, delivered a burger with garlic fries sprinkled with fresh parsley. She shared the meal and halved my guilt. Love that girl! When in doubt, add a hint of  fresh parsley to the fries. Just the right touch to end a day at the spa.