When you least expect it

Once, my friend Mary gave me a certificate at one of her favorite spas, one that I'd never been to but always meant to visit since it's in my neighborhood and has been written about as “green” and earth friendly. I came home from our breakfast date clutching my certificate and spa menu. I called within minutes, grubbily studying the menu while jabbing numbers into the phone. For me it was a no brainer. Rather than going for some of the more exotic sounding choices, I went with two of my favorites, treatments that were totally reliable because I've had them many times before—a 30 minutes reflexology treatment followed by an hour of deep-tissue massage

When could they take me? The next day? Whee!

By the sound of the name my masseur would be Asian, which was great because the last reflexology I had was from a Japanese woman and it was heavenly. He was also a man. I would have preferred a woman but have worked with plenty of guy practitioners, some of whom were great. I put my mind at ease by putting a weird reverse discrimination spin on things. Don’t Asian massage therapists, male and female, seem to have some kind of naturally occurring genetic pipeline to the divine?

I walked in the next day like I always enter spas. With the same spring in my step that I imagine I'd have if I were being escorted into a press conference, cameras trained on me, with someone holding one of those ginormous checks for several mil ready to hand off to me--each spa date feels like a lotto moment to me. Here I am about to get pampered to my heart’s desire and all I have to do is accept it graciously.

In fact, I left a couple of hours later feeling a little deflated, slightly agitated and kind of robbed. . . .

My Asian man did not speak English well at all, though he did ask me if I ever had reflexology before. Oh, yes. I responded, and I love it. But his reflexology was not my reflexology. It didn't include the kind of gently meditative attention paid to every square inch of each foot (and sometimes, the hands or ears) where pressure points that correlate to the reflex map of the body are stimulated in order to free up the flow of energy throughout the body to give you the most awesome feeling of well being possible without the use of contraband.


Rather, for the next half hour. (Actually, he went longer, something one can only pray for when the treatment is great.) What I got was a sort of hard foot scrubbing. Really hard. Okay, really, really hard. Actually, it was more a full-on attack to the feet. He used lots of lotion (lotion?) and then he went about scratching at my unsuspecting feet, taking a break only to give them the occasional pummeling.

I don't need to go on about the next hour of deep-tissue massage except to say that it had in common with it the scratchingand pummeling in addition to performing on me the most absurd body stretches, like I was one of those Cirque du Soleil contortionists. (You do yoga? He asked at one point.) By the time he pronounced me Finish! my fists were clenched, my jaw was set tightly and I was near tears.

Why didn't I stop him? I still ask myself this question. Yes, I yelped a few times and asked him to slow down. Each time he’d just give a soft laugh. But there were other, crazy things going on in my mind. He was a very nice man and I didn't want to hurt his feelings. Also we're at our most vulnerable in situations. Being almost totally naked with a stranger—which is what every time you're given a new practitioner—I felt a little powerless. And part of me, the lying part, thought that maybe it was just me. That in fact this guy worked here because he was gifted, and he was doing on me what reflexology and deep tissue were supposed to be.

Okay, I'm a little embarrassed to add that I put up with it because I was interested in where this thing would lead me. This would be good material for my new blog! I thought. It would prove my point that better communication was in order in The Land of Spa!

But the truth is I'm not alone in my experience. Looking back, both me and the spa could have done a lot to make my outcome different. For example, they could have informed me when I made the appointment that the type of treatment this particular person dishes up is different than what I might be used to.

And I could have summoned my inner bitch and spoken up. So his English was limited; all I had to do was quietly sit up and say, Excuse me, but I don't like this. Could have been accomplished with a bit of sign language, even.

Instead, as I left I tipped him 20%.