Spa'z Attack

A couple of weekends ago, we visited a spa where we spent far too much money though it was great spending the time with my sister, mom, and my niece, all of us sitting 'round the spa library (a sinisterly dark room, Metropolitan Home ready-to-peruse, lavender lemon verbena scent wafting) while wearing spa robes and slippers. I went to the spa for a facial. My mom, sister and niece were all having massages.

Leading us into the dressing room, the spa hostess asked, "What size feet do you have?" I could not put that question together with the fact that I was there for a facial so I ignored her question. Finally she handed me a Calista Flockhart-sized robe replete with lilliputian rubber slippers, and left me to prepare. Life was so much simpler pre-facials. When I was young, my mom would holler, "Go wash your face!" There was never a call for a robe and slippers. If there had been a call, and entire family of seven would have gone robe and slipper shopping.

I was concerned. Why are they telling me to take my clothes off if I am getting a facial? My sister suggested, "Maybe they'll give you a foot rub." I have no idea what rubbing my feet has to do with a face? At 5'9" tall, my face and feet are a good distance away from one another. You'd think the spa would charge double if they're doing a foot rub in addition to a facial - in fact, I know I paid double. But I don't want a foot rub by a stranger. Naked, my toes look like Weebles (membah them?) and tend to curl up like the Wicked Witch's from the Wizard of Oz upon the threat of being touched. I could already feel my shoes tightening.

I once had a blind date with a guy whose company I enjoyed and he, mine, though he made a serious faux pas midway through the evening. He let slip that he had a thing for feet. My heart sank at any hope of continuing any relationship with this freaking foot fanatic. I shuddered through the end of that date as if I had to fart at any second. I was afraid he'd want to see my toes and I'd be out of there faster than Cinderella leaving the ball past midnight. That date was our first and last. Afterward he phoned me several times, asking, wondering why I wouldn't go out with him again? I finally told him I had a terrible illness. Even though it was years later, I was diagnosed with cancer. (See what happens when you lie?) All I'm saying is beware. Anyone with a creepy foot fetish should not bring up his penchant for a foot fantasy while on a date with someone who has lymphedema (lower body) unless the person likes chubby, wubby toes that look like they spent their life stuffed inside a Vienna sausage can.

That's why I'm saying -- just do the facial, okay?

Getting undressed for my facial -- I left my lymphedema compression garment on the bottom half of my body as guaranty that, should I become momentarily distracted during my facial, finding myself in a position where someone was actually making a quick move for my lower half, they'd come upon this additional barrier to my toes. Were I to pass out from all the tension and stress of this spa visit while laying on the facial table wearing my postage stamp-sized robe, they would not be able to get to my toes without actually cutting off my compression garment. By this time I'd wake up to find a secret society of black robe wearing white-makeup-faced goons, and Tom Cruise wearing a creepy mask (sort of reminds me of the spa library all over again). Putting my compression hose on in the morning take enough time out of my life already, I'm not taking them off for an unplanned foot-rub by a spa creep trying to earn bigger tip.

One pair of compression hose that I wear are so tight, they require the use of rubber gloves and a crowbar to assist with donning. Donning is the technical term the experts use instead of using the words "putting on." (You put on your cheapass socks. I don my compression garments. Notice the subtle the difference? Mid-summer when the temperature reaches 102 degrees, I promise you'll notice a huge difference.)

We use the word donning when we spend thousands of dollars (and insurance money if we are *really* lucky) on made-to-order compression garments, sewn in Germany by stitchers (sewers?) who obviously hate lymphedema patients (because the compression stockings, made to a patient's exact measurements NEVER, ever fit correctly the first time, and must be returned to the German seamstresses, (sewers?) 3-4 times to be re-modeled before the garments will fit properly in order for them to be donned. I have never become shorter between measuring and receiving my order from Germany -- (at least not 20 cm shorter).

On this particular spa trip I neglected to pack my assorted donning tools. Still I have developed and refined life long defenses to keep anyone who's hot after toes at bay. Yet, on that day at the spa as much as I fretted over possible foot attention, the esthetician never offered to rub my tootsies. Not one word passed between us about my feet. If I had followed instructions to take off all my clothes, I'd still be scratching my head, wondering wtf?

My feet spent the day neglected which is exactly the way I like them. If my toes ever get any special treatment, it's gonna be from me. After all, I know what they look like. I've already been warned.