This afternoon I decided to cash in a gift certificate to a "spa" in an unsavory part of town. A co-worker gave me a $50 certificate -- not including tip -- for a pedicure and massage for my birthday. I know, that's cheap, but it was worth a try. It's my birthday week, so a free massage and pedicure is deserved. I left work early for this "pampering" session.
YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR!
The spa was some store-front dump that had NAILS, FEET, BODY SPA emblazoned across it. Right there, I should have known what I was in for. No one was in the "spa" except for an old Asian lady, who greeted me by saying, "What you want!?" I presented the certificate to her, which she snatched, studied, then sighed. "Sit down," she instructed me. I sat down in a leather swivel chair where the leather was peeling, and digging into my tender flesh.
My pedicure was first. The pedicure consisted of dipping my feet into soapy water, prepared -- I swear -- with dish detergent and a drop of some amber-colored oil in a crusty glass bottle. "What's that?" I asked the annoyed old lady.
"OIL!" she shouted back.
I wanted to ask her what kind of oil, but the way she shouted at me made me just accept that OIL! was being poured into the water. So my feet soaked for about two minute -- two measly minutes, I repeat -- before they were taken out and rubbed briskly with a towel, that, thank God, looked fresh. She then applied some cream from an equally crusty container. "Done," she said. Huh? Done? Wh--? Um, like, what about my toes? Don't I get my cuticles treated with an orange stick, or my toenails polished? This was the pedicure?
"You go for massage now!" the woman shouted.
At this point, I just wanted to see how far this comedy would go.
I was escorted to a room in the back, where I was told to remove only my pants, which I did. Apparently, my shirt need not come off. I waited for the masseuse. My masseuse was the same old lady, and she brought the same bottle of crusty OIL! into the room and proceeded to massage my legs with it. It was a pressure-less massage; she basically rubbed my legs with OIL! After five minutes, she said, "Done! You tip!" She actually held out her oily hand to me.
I gave her a $10 tip, something that I had to force myself to do.
Driving home, I wondered to myself: What the hell did I do to piss off ________? Then I started craving a session at Spa Space, where I know the masseuses are professionally trained, the massages last an hour, and a pedicure involves the cuticles, toenails, and buffing of my heels.
There is a life lesson to be learned here. I now know for $50 I can get someone to soak my feet in dish water and rub my legs with OIL! I got my money's worth.
Looking on the bright side, this is The Zaftig Chronicles' 100th post!
I never knew I had that much to say.