
That’s right, I haven’t used it yet. What’s wrong with me? I have friends who would absolutely love to spend the day lounging around and pampering themselves at the spa. Me? I’d rather walk on hot coals.
Don’t get me wrong. A few times a year, I do the mani-pedi thing because I admit I like my toenails to look pretty. And those ladies who double-team you with one doing your toes and the other doing your hands? I love those ladies, mainly because they’re so fast! Fast is good. I tell them, the faster you paint my paws and claws and send me on my way, the better I’ll tip you. It’s a win-win.

Just shoot me. Really, I’d rather eat dirt. I’m so not a girlie-girl.

Part of my problem may center around that table I have to spread out on. Is it just me, or does it resemble a torture device? Show of hands.
I guess I blame my lack of love for all things spa-centered on my childhood. I grew up with four brothers who treated my attempts to fluff and pamper myself with mockery and cynicism. My mother, while wonderful and thoroughly feminine, was hardly a role model due to her whirlwind life of bandaging or swabbing or rushing to the emergency room after one of my annoying brothers fell out of a tree or got hit by a stick or swallowed ant poisoning.

I suppose I’ll have to get that massage one of these days, but I’m not looking forward to it.