For Those About to Rub My Feet: I Salute You

Today I went to a spa. Not my natural habitat, to be sure. Saint Aardvark’s parents gave me a gift card for Christmas and I saved it till now so that I could have someone else clip my toenails at 39 weeks pregnant. I meant to go last Friday but due to a staff miscommunication my appointment was taken away from me. To me, it was no big deal. My toenails remained unclipped for one more week. But the spa is an EXPERIENCE SPA so all 12 front desk staff & hostess-type millers-about were very concerned about my less-than-celebrity treatment. Especially, I think, because of my size. They: small, well-groomed women. Me: large, unkempt and with nothing to lose. So to make up for the inconvenience, they gave me a free paraffin treatment. I had no idea what this was but it was free, they said, and an upgrade, they said and I am no dummy. Upgrade me!

Off we went, into a Treatment Room, which bore a rather startling resemblance to a labour and delivery room. It had a semi-reclining bed, the lights were sort of low, except for where my Therapist sat at my feet in a bright spotlight. Lots of confusing instruments lying about, looking sterile. And there were lots of towels. But then there was the piped-in, “relaxing” music. You know, Enya. Enigma. Which I’m pretty sure you won’t find in a hospital. Not for long, anyway.

There was also one song, it was some kind of chanting, Enigma-style, with a oong-chucka oong-oong chucka beat and when I listened closely to the words, I slowly and with horror realized she was spelling “C-A-N…C-E-R,” breathily and repeatedly. Seriously. It’s enough to turn your baby sideways.

Anyway. I was reclining rather uncomfortably with my feet soaking in a bowl of warm water and my therapist came back and put my hands in sandwich baggies full of warm wax. Then she put my baggied hands into terrycloth mittens. Then she placed both hands on my belly. The warm wax dripped out over my left wrist and puddled on my shirt. I just watched. This was the paraffin treatment. After an hour the baggies came off and my hands were very soft.

Meanwhile, she filed, buffed, sanded and polished my toes. Oh and massaged my feet. Hello. Much nicer than labour and delivery, on reflection. Cancer song or no.

I learned the following fun facts about my spa therapist.

1. She hates her younger brother.
2. She wants her boyfriend to propose already. It’s been 3 years! Mostly because
3. she wants 5 children. And also,
4. She has performed Brazilian waxes on women who are as pregnant as me. And I quote,

“I was like, OK, if that’s what you want. So I like spread it on real quick and pulled it off as fast as I could and then got out of the way! Because, like, what if labour started or something!”

5. She has heard of those water births but she’s not so sure because the water would get all bloody and stuff. Wouldn’t it?

(How about you have one kid to start with. See how that goes before you commit to another 4.)

Sweet girl. Was very easy to chat with and very kind to my feet and lower legs. Am sure she told next client all about me and how I hadn’t had a pedicure in, like, over 2 years!

When I paid at the front desk, after twice declining the complimentary makeup touch-up (I was not wearing any makeup at the time. I did not understand the offer. I did not say.) the front desk Honchette said, “Thank you so much for coming back after last week. You know,” and here she leaned in with a great air of conspiracy, “we found out what happened. And we made some changes around here.” It sounded really ominous. My god! Did they have someone killed? I looked around and noticed a few personnel changes. I nodded politely, tipped well and left, suspecting that somewhere in the world, there is a newly fired spa therapist sticking tiny pins into a pregnant voodoo doll.