Last Thursday, at the bizarre time of 2:30pm, smack dab in the middle of the afternoon, and at the end of my creative rope, I decided to test my writing guru’s theory that the best way to get rid of writer’s block is to stand under the shower.
I let the water rain down on me, hoping it would dislodge the brain clutter, like liquid plumber on a clogged drain. Isn’t it ironic that blog rhymes with clog and brain fog?
I waited for a sudden bolt of inspiration that would make me spring, soaking wet out of the shower, to capture the little flower of creativity budding in my mind. Of course once in the shower, I realized that I forgot to place a pen and paper nearby. I was down to maybe a fifty- fifty chance of actually remembering my BIG IDEA by the time I dried off and retrieved a notepad.
As the hot water blasted down on me, I waited and waited but NOTHING, not even a ping of an idea. A quitter I am not, so I moved on to shaving my legs, making sure that a steady stream of water hit my cerebral cortex at all times. Still NOTHING. I had maybe two minutes of hot water left when I spied a jar of shea sugar body scrub, hiding behind the Big Irishman’s (hubby, light of my life, ball and chain) body wash… Irish Spring, naturally.
That’s when my big idea hit me. I had to blog about my spa day with my dear friend Wendy, aka The Shopper. Wendy is yet another lawyer who shouldn’t be a lawyer. She should be a personal shopper for the uber rich and famous. The Shopper can navigate through Bergdorf’s better than a pack of 8 year olds in Toys R Us.
The Shopper found us a fantastic spa package at a chichi new spa in New York City that we could not pass up. Being a sucker for all things spa, I opted for the Nirvana package that included a hot stone massage, body scrub, facial and a mani –pedi.
Picture us decked out in in eco-friendly bamboo robes while lounging in a very hip, green tea, Zen like oasis, with an indoor rock waterfall babbling in the background. We nibbled almond, apricot and flax seed offerings and sipped hibiscus tea while waiting to be called for our treatments.
Right after my hot stone massage, I passed Wendy in the hallway. She had a stupefied trance like look that is only brought on by mind blowing sex, the Virgin Mary revealing herself to you at Fatima or in The Shoppers’ case, snagging three pairs of Manolo Blahniks at Barney’s semiannual shoe sale.
“How was it?” I whispered, not wanting to break the spell. She nodded and mumbled something in response. Was she talking in tongues? Her face was backlit with an unearthly aura. Like the Harry met Sally moment in the diner, I’m thinking, wow, I’ll have what she’s having! That body scrub must have been awesome. Before I could get the treatment details, I was quickly whisked away by Juan.
A word about Juan, HOT! Well maybe two words SMOKING HOT! He motioned to the table, gestured for me to lie face down, and left. I shrugged off my robe, slipped under the sheet and waited for the body scrubber. A few minutes passed and Juan reentered. Much to my complete and utter shock it quickly became apparent that Juan was going to do the body scrub. Maybe I should use three more words to describe SMOKING HOT Juan and that would be, NON-ENGLISH SPEAKING. He began buffing my lower legs with what looked like a large scrub brush used to clean livestock. I craned my neck around and stuttered that I was expecting a female attendant. Obviously something was lost in translation because Juan vigorously nodded, flashed a sexy smile and increased the scrubbing tempo.
A few more words about Wendy, SOON TO BE EX-FRIEND! How could she not specify female attendant for the body scrub? I held my breath in abject embarrassment as Juan worked his way up to the tippy top of my thigh.
“Bueno, Bueno” I mumble, mistakenly thinking that I said “Hey I’m good, enough already”…surely the brush stops here! He grunted in total agreement. We are simpatico, who needs words when we communicate effortlessly with head nods and emphatic eye rolls. Faster than you can say ole ole, Juan whipped off the sheet like a matador taming a tired old bull, or cow in my case, and buffed my butt into submission.
Later over mojitos, The Shopper, who is also Latino, and had regained the ability to speak, said that the correct word was BASTA.
Although I may have secretly lusted after Adam Rodriguez, from CSI Miami fame, having every cranny of my old bod dry brushed, scrubbed with sugar and slathered in hot almond oil by his look- a- like, was not the spa package that I bargained for.
There is something to be said for being too squeaky clean!