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?
Shit! I need to go to the toilet again. Bloody hibiscus unicorn tears tea.
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