My spa anxiety kicked in while filling in the form — I was handed a cup of hibiscus unicorn tears tea or something. I shouldn’t drink it because I’ll have to sprint to the toilet halfway through.
Then the change room. What do I need to take off? Everything? Just for a back massage?
So why are those useless disposable undies there? Am I supposed to wear them?
If yes, which way do they go? And why are they so see-through?
Which way does the robe go on?
Remember that time it had to go on backwards Hannibal Lecter style?
Do I have to wear these thongs? (Australian footwear usage)
Who wore them before? What if they had tinea / leprosy / the Black Death?
Ok, so far so good, I’m face down with my head poking through that furry toilet seat thing.
I’m only having a back massage, so why have my undies been simultaneously rolled down and aside to give me a pseudo Sumo / Bondi lifesaver style wedgie?
What if the therapist cracks something and I now have the communication skills of an artichoke?
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Why are they pressing so hard on my kidneys?
Feels like they’re going to burst through my scrotum.
Why am I oiled up like the last meal Elvis Presley ate?
What are you doing near my arse?
“How is the pressure?” I want to scream “You’re f*cking killing me!”, but don’t want to sound weak.
It’s over. “Yes that was wonderful, thanks.” I lied.
A massage in a spa is like a physiotherapy session at a demented dentist — accompanied by mystical rainforest music.
Great. Now I have post spa anxiety stress disorder.
Think I need a massage…
©Steve Williams 2015