Back to work today after an extended weekend getaway of five glorious computer and phone-free days in Oregon. The first couple of days were spent at the very cool, funkadelic McMenamin’s Edgefield, where one of the highlights (besides being in a state of constant awe at the artwork, artwork everywhere!) was our couples massage at Ruby’s Spa. I scheduled it for our second day in the afternoon, right between our private tour of the brewery (which also had artwork in every room, even in the coldest reaches of the hoppiest storage room; my favorite being these two floating cows one of the brewers pointed out that had these eyes that followed you right down the hall and back) and our dinner reservation at the Black Rabbit (best on my plate: spinach gratin to die for, and white truffle oil pommes frites that were so good they may have had the side benefit of ruining all French fries to come for me from here to eternity. If I were on death row and had to choose a last meal, these pommes frites would be IT!) But back to the massage…
· Shaved legs, pits and other areas that needed a Spring tidying during my morning shower in nervous pre-date anticipation, wondering how dark it would be in the room, worried I’ll look like a pink piggy-woman to the masseuse.
· Told Joe we should have been doing extra-strenuous activities the last couple of days so we would be good and sore and get our money’s worth.
· Half an hour before our appointment I discover black fuzzies from my socks lodged deeply in the crevasses I call my heels! Frenzied emergency scrubbing ensues, while Joe calmly plays his wooden flute.
· Filling out a general health and info form buck naked in our spa robes, sipping herbal tea and beginning the mellow-out process I have a strong desire to check the boxes for both PMS and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, even though I have neither.
· The room is pleasantly, blessedly, dark, with scented candles and floaty music, and as our hired hands (hee hee) step out so we can disrobe, climb onto the heated table-beds and hide our soft pink pommes frites lovin’ bodies under the sheets and heavy blankets, I try to release the last of my giggles with some deep breathing.
· Once the warm oiled hands touch me I relax and allow myself to be kneaded like a giant ball of dough for the next hour.
· All that deep breathing I did to relax is making my nose run but I’m afraid to move.
· Did I just hear Joe snore? Is that his pleasure noise? What’s going on over there? How can I subtly sneak a peek?
· My kneader’s stomach just growled. Maybe she’s thinking of plump, juicy pork.
· Foot massage bliss! If I were Queen I would have this done every day! I want to be Queen!
· Head massage is pulling me off this earth and into a better, fuzzier world, and then oh-so-gently, they lay our robes over our bellies and it’s over. I want to cry.
· Joe and I turn to each other with blissed-out gazes and slip reluctantly into our robes. I fondly pat my heated bed and say a silent goodbye.
· We float down the stairs after our rub-goddesses show us a couple moves for future use, and find our land-legs as we lurch like stoned John Waynes to the changing room.
· After sliding my freshly oiled body into street-clothes (we opted not to shower so we could soak up as much oil as we could) I glide into the restroom. As I’m washing my hands the mirror reflects this woman with glazed over eyes, a beatific smile and bangs sticking absurdly, straight up like Cameron Diaz in There’s Something About Mary (“Is that hair gel?”). A lot of water and some spastic combing later, and it almost looks normal.
· Seattle needs a Ruby’s Spa.