A Cautionary Tale

As a new mother, time to unwind and re-charge your batteries is scarce.  Where is the “me time” you whimper to your own bedraggled reflection, your rogue grey hairs picking up wayward hints of sunlight, briefly reminding you of your carefree days at the beach. Where?!?!

I will tell you where: at a bar! Or, if you are feeling fancy, at a spa! That’s where. If you are from Boston you can easily remember these two options, because for you bar and spa rhyme.

Nothing says “I have THE hardest job in the world and I need to pamper myself in order to withstand the CONSTANT stress, else I will suffer from both PTSD AND PMS!” like a nice rejuvenating trip to the spa.

If you cannot afford this, you can try what I try when I am tight on money: I rub my shoulders up against the corner of my door frame. Dig your shoulder blades RIGHT into the sharp edge, and you will feel like you are at a spa, assuming that by spa you mean prison.

When I lived in NYC pre-motherhood, I also tried the socially risky technique of finding large bosomed women on the subway and snuggling up with them when I needed to feel soothed.

You might not want to try this if you live in the suburbs, as the space you are expected to keep between yourself and strangers, large bosomed or not, is greater.

But back to my suggestion. A massage or facial will allow you to forget your cares for at least 50 minutes. The other ten minutes of the treatment you will be distracted by the heavy breathing of your masseuse, and by realizing that you have congealed breast milk in your hair, and this will cause you to forget to relax. Otherwise this time is blissful.

However.

You can manage to ruin this unique opportunity for some R&R if, like me, you choose to push the boundaries of socially acceptable behavior just a bit too far.

I am hopeful that you will learn from my experience, so that you do not sabotage your own efforts at self-indulgence. {Note: some of you may be vaguely familiar with this story, if you followed the Misadventures of Liz blog}.

And so, a cautionary tale…

Picture it, Danvers, 2008: I am visiting Maison Esthetique, a high-end spa, as evidenced by the fact that the name is in French. Everything French is fancy except for fries, I think we all know that.

It’s a rainy and raw sort of day, which makes the luxurious warmth of the spa all the more appealing. Yes, this is what it feels like being back in the womb, as long as your mother is a fancy french woman. I could not be more pumped up for my facial! Enthusiasm is a strong suit of mine. Prudence is not, as we are about to see.

My “facialist” (I looked it up, that is a real word) was a conservative type; friendly, but not overly so. As I entered her den of pleasure she told me I could remove my top and lay under the warmed blankets on the table before me.

This was a reasonable suggestion, but I had other ideas.

“And also my pants?” I inquired. I mean, I wanted to take my pants off. I was wearing jeans, and I wanted nothing more than to be free under that blanket. I did not want that hard, cold denim irritating me.

It was a relaxing atmosphere, and dammit, I wanted to be relaxed.

“Uh, no, just your shirt.” She seemed confused by my question. “This is just a facial. No need to take your pants off.”

Uh-oh. Now what was I to do? I shouldn’t have even asked! You know, the whole “easier to ask forgiveness than permission” thing is wise.

Should I abort my plan of pants-less luxury? Hell no! This was ME TIME! And for ME to be comfortable I need to have my pants off. But in her defense, as this was a facial she would be dealing exclusively with my face. Under no circumstances would it be necessary to have my pants off.

It would be like asking your dentist or hairdresser if you should take your pants off. Um, no. You should not.

Not wanting to alarm my facialist, I answered as I was expected to. “Oh, right, of course.”

But really, I couldn’t wait for that kill-joy to get out of the room, those pants were coming OFF!

As soon as she left the room I leapt into action. I knew time was short.

I shed my pants, figuring I would be able to get them off, hide them under my purse, and hurry under the covers before she saw a thing. The woman would never know and never care that I had taken off my pants and disregarded her explicit instructions not to do so.

Yeah, I would be a creep, but an undetected one.

Well, I wish my reflexes had been just a bit quicker, because the facialist re-appeared seconds later to find me inappropriately clad in the middle of the room.

And by “inappropriately clad” I mean pants around my ankles, business exposed.

“Oh, hello!” I said awkwardly. “I just decided to, ah, well, take my pants off….I just really really wanted them off.”

Obviously.

Nevermind that I was just explicitly told not to.

Nevermind that this was a facial.

Who cares about social boundaries when in pursuit of some relaxation! I hopped into the bed, dressed for a proctologist, eyes shut tight. This was going to be an uncomfortable hour and there was no turning back.

And this, my friends, is a cautionary tale for you all. Seek opportunities for decompression wherever you can. But please do so WITH YOUR PANTS ON. You do not want anyone looking at you the way that this facialist was looking at me. Believe you me.

Moms, what do you do to relax? How do you get away from the punishing burdens of motherhood?