A recent Idaho winter lasted about three years, so I packed my hide-all black swimsuit, new black sandals, and glue-on fake toenails and headed south to a spa near the ocean. Sometimes I use fake toenails with sandals because my nails don't grow and my toes resemble ugly, chubby sausages. I fear that hungry rodents suddenly will burst from the bushes and snack on my feet.
Within the first hour at the resort, I accidentally stepped into a shallow pool of water, and the dye on the new sandals covered my feet with black stripes. Luckily, my fake nails didn't come off.
I had arranged for a massage the following day, and I didn't want to appear with clown feet, so I decided to walk along the beach and let the sand wear off the dye. The two-hour stroll erased some of the black stripes, but unfortunately I got a hideous burn from the intense sun. Then the humidity turned my hair into an uncontrollable bush of wire thick enough to hold my keys, a water bottle, and a salacious novel. I retreated to the safe obscurity of my room, avoiding eye contact with all the beautiful people.
I arrived the next morning at the spa, greeted by gentle, exotic hostesses named Jasmine and Camilla. Once ensconced in a fluffy white robe, I was ushered to the waiting room where chimes tinkled, scented candles glowed in the dim light, and a water fountain bubbled into a tranquil pool. In front of me sat the most beautiful women I had ever seen. No, they didn't sit. They floated in the room with perfect skin, flawless faces, and tight, teeny bodies. Meanwhile, I resembled Aunt Bee from the "Mayberry RFD" television show.
They turned in unison to stare as I stumbled into the room, tripped over the bamboo rug, spilled my mango-infused water, and lost two fake toenails. I sat there with a soaking robe, frizzy hair, black-striped feet, sunburned nose, and stubby toenails. As I retrieved the errant nails and stuffed them into my pocket, I knew that I had become the court jester in a room of Grecian goddesses.
I sipped my water but was so nervous that I choked. This action, of course, activated a loud disrupting commotion of coughing, sneezing, farting, and the urgent need to urinate. I tiptoed quickly from the quiet room and hid in the restroom until they found me for my massage. For comfort, I stuffed a few free razors and combs into the pocket of my robe over the toenails.
But there's nothing like a 90-minute massage to make all the mental and physical pains go away. The massage therapist applied scented oils to my sunburn, dug her elbows into my aching back, and rubbed my feet with soothing cream. By the end, I wanted to take her home with me. I happily glided from the enchanted spa, grateful to feel so good and ready for my next entertaining adventure. For a brief moment in time, I felt beautiful.
On the way back to my room, I noticed two of the perfect women floating nearby. They smiled and waved, and I managed to return the gesture without falling down. I felt rejuvenated, liberated, and worthy of one more try at the spa. And, I had some free razors and a comb.
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