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The Goddess Speaks Genevieve A. Suzuki |
There’s no rest with
hubby as spa date"Augh! You're naked!" cried my husband, Derek, jumping five feet in the air.
It's not that my marriage is on the rocks; the remark was uttered on our special spa day.
Most people who have visited a spa -- any spa in the lush Hawaiian Islands, complete with ambient shakuhachi music playing in the background and scented candles -- are already nodding in empathy. For those who've never set one un-manicured foot into a room packed full of aromatherapeutic products, let me explain. It all started when Derek suggested we go to Maui. I called our favorite hotel only to find out that a "kamaaina summer" on Maui means "local people get jacked."
I suggested that we save money by staying at a hotel on Oahu. Living in Mililani makes going to Waikiki almost the same as flying to another island. So I made reservations at a popular local resort. And then I realized we'd never been to one of those upscale spas, so made reservations for one of the hotel spa's couple packages, including a bath, massage and facial.
When I told Derek about the spa, he began to fidget. "Urgh, cucumbers on my eyes?"
I assured him that was a stereotype.
"Why do I need a facial? I have great skin," he insisted, brushing his hands up and down his face.
It'll be relaxing, I assured him. After all, the facial came with a massage.
"Why do we need a bath with rose petals?" he groused, staring at the brochure. "Do we get to eat the petals? I don't want to smell like roses."
Baths are romantic, I assured him.
WHEN WE ARRIVED at the spa, a young guy came to collect Derek to take him to the men's lounge, and I headed for the women's lounge. The woman at the desk showed me the facilities and a change of clothes. I emerged from the women's lounge in a white robe and blue rubber slip-ons as instructed, only to find my husband still in his T-shirt and shorts.
"Why aren't you wearing your robe?" I asked, a little irritated.
"The guy said I could wait until it was time for our appointment," he beamed.
"The guy was wrong. Go change," I said.
Derek stopped smiling, but I wasn't about to be the only one eating at the spa cafe in a robe and slippers.
We went to the spa cafe with Derek wearing his robe as though it were an aikido uniform, and a healthy scowl. After paying for the spa, we could barely afford the healthy $4 smoothies. Instead, we shared a pastry described as being healthy due to its fresh blueberry content, never mind the cheese and sugar glaze on top.
For our bath, we were led to another room by a woman who was surprised to see two of us. She left us with a promise that she would return and showed us the scented bath. Derek stood there in his boxers, staring at the tub.
"There aren't any rose petals, and I didn't bring my swim trunks," he said, eyeing the bubbling bath.
"You didn't want the petals and you don't need the shorts. This is a bath," I said, dropping my robe.
"Hey, you're naked!" he said, frantically turning around to see who was watching. You'd think we were fifth-graders at Camp Erdman. He spent five minutes craning his neck to stare at the door, worrying aloud when the woman would return. At my insistence he finally streaked into the tub.
"Aagh! It's so hot!" he cried, holding himself out of the water.
Derek ended up enjoying the bath -- too much, perhaps. He angled his body to take up the entire area, interrupting my positive chi and reinforcing my negative chi by making me sit with a jet stream in the ribs. I had my revenge when I got out of the tub, displacing water and giving him a jet stream in the face.
THEN IT WAS time for the massage. Derek threw his robe at me and jumped beneath the sheet on his massage table. I stood there, naked -- again -- and unrelaxed, hanging my husband's robe.
After the massage, which went pretty well considering Derek lucked out with a gentle female masseuse while I won a grappling session with Sven, a burly guy who used me to practice meat tenderizing techniques.
Derek was glowing when his facialist came to collect him. Afterward was another story.
"How was it?" I asked him, feeling pretty clear-skinned myself.
"Well, it was OK," he said. "It was nice in the beginning. She massaged my feet, and then it felt like she lathered baby oil all over my face. Then she massaged my face. That was good. I think she even slipped some cucumbers on my eyes. But suddenly there was a bright light, as though I were coming out of a coma.
"And then there was pain."
Blackheads. My husband had blackheads. He said he stopped counting after 10. "It felt like she broke my nose," he groused.
There we stood at the end of our special spa day, looking at each other's new skin.
"Think we'll do it again?" I asked, knowing we probably wouldn't.
"The massage, maybe. Everything else, I don't think so," Derek answered.
I realized then that spa days need to be reserved for girlfriends who have already bought into the self-discovery phenomenon, and not for self-conscious husbands with blackheads.
As for Derek, I'm proud that he suffered through the day for me. I guess you could say the reward was more than just skin deep.
Genevieve A. Suzuki is an Oahu-based freelance writer.
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