I spent three days at a health spa this past week. They're so popular because secretly everyone wants to revert back to a baby-like state, of throwing off life's responsibilities. The biggest worry constituted the slippers they had given me were in fact made for an elf. Or for people with no toes.
It is interesting to note that those who first arrive, fresh from the madness and and frenzied pace of London life rush about in a restless agitation, desperate to get somewhere, to do something. By my second day, I was wandering from the pool to the silent relax area as if I had ingested Valium, my head slightly lolling to one side, with the heady scent of lavender pillow mist still ever-present in my nostrils. It was exactly like being a baby, or at least how I imagine it is to be a baby, 20 years since being one. I spent 75% of my time immersed in some type of liquid, whether it was massage oil, body scrub, or thalassotherapy waters. My fingertips were permanently shrivelled for the duration of my stay.
Reflecting upon my experience, the spa environment is truly unique. Indeed, I was happy to spend an afternoon having jets fired at my bottom, in an attempt to 'expel toxins' and 'tackle cellulite' (which I do not believe is possible - it does not matter how much exercise I do, I will still never ever bare my bottom to the world.. obviously). I even tolerated a woman I had never met before to massage my décolleté, without raising an eyebrow. I allowed another woman I had never met before to massage a freezing ice-gel into my thighs in another far-fetched attempt to dispel all the flab and terrible toxins modern living had instilled in my body. The cursory shake of the hand with your therapist - "Hi, I'm Michelle, I'll be your therapist today" followed by "I will now massage your breasts" does not compute, or should not at least. But in spa world, formality clashes with platonic physical intimacy in almost laughable ways. And I did laugh, silently, when the woman started rubbing my calves - I've now discovered that area is unbearably ticklish.
After emerging from the little bubble of bliss, I found myself rather startled by normal life. I found the wearing of normal clothes - adult clothes - profoundly uncomfortable, as it was no longer socially acceptable to wear a towelling robe amongst members of the public, for the sake of my own dignity. And - what fresh hell! - shoes?! What madness. Everyone, in my opinion, should wear slippers all day long, never mind practicalities. The world would be a far happier place if people had comfortable footwear, such as slippers. Pottering about in slippers immediately relaxes you. For instance, I no longer had to worry if my new Kurt Geiger pumps would tear my feet to shreds by the end of the day, nor suffer that terrible sensation of sweaty feet sliding around in unforgiving, rigid new shoes. To not be irritated by pinched toes, aching heels, torn Achilles tendons! People would become infinitely more patient and accommodating.
I have just re-read my psycho-babble. Good grief, that spa place has truly infected my brain. Some people stay there for two weeks. If I have trouble grasping the modes of behaviour of normal society after three days, then Christ knows what I'd be like after fourteen. Probably immobile on the floor - all productiveness would have been kneaded out of my muscles, no doubt. Fabulous! Guilt-free, low fat cake! Over-active digestive system resulting from an overload of pulses, beans, seeds, fruit, salad! Meeting Frank Bruno in the swimming pool! Turning into a prune in the jacuzzi! Fan-bloody-tastic. And not possible in any way, in the outside world. For shame.
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