A Different Kind of "Me" Time
My husband gave me a running start on my birthday this year. How so? He listened when I said, "No party, please!"
"If you want to celebrate my birthday, take me away for the weekend--and include some time at a spa."
So, last Friday--four days before my birthday--we packed our bags, loaded up the car, and headed into the mountains. Our eldest daughter, Katie Beth, did yeoman's duty and took care of 8-year-old Christa while we ran away from home. We had a wonderful four days in Keystone, a ski town in the Rocky mountains. The lodge we stayed in had a spa--and Rob booked a package for me that included two massages. What a guy!
I opted for a regular massage the first go-round. But the brochure had an intriguing list of "specialty massage therapies." I figured, "Why not?" and signed up for the Marta Kodo (translation: big melody), a unique technique, inspired by traditional Australian Aboriginal methods ... using a combination of pressure, rhythmical spiraling movements and your choice of native Aboriginal aromatic oils ...
Rob joked the massage therapist would use boomerangs and koala bears on me--and to watch out for the kangaroo in the room. Very funny guy, my husband.
The massage started off tamely enough with a footbath in the "Relaxation Room." Then my therapist took me to the private room. She offered to light a pile of twigs and leaves in a bowl to "cleanse the room." I declined, not wanting to disrupt my massage with an asthma attack.
Then, she switched on soothing background music.
That lasted all of 30 seconds.
As I relaxed, I heard a low, gutteral noise--the sound of an Aborigine man chanting. I don't know what he was chanting--but he went on and on and on and on, drowning out the soothing melody.
It sounded like he had a massive hairball lodged in his throat.
There I am, trying to savor some "me" time, and all I can think is,"Somebody get this guy a glass of water!"
Not that it would have helped. There was no Aborigine in the room. It was a CD that played the entire 50 minutes of my appointment. Occasionally, women would join in the chanting--as if they could disguise the guy's distress.
After the massage, my therapist led me back to the "Relaxation Room." She brought me a blue pottery plate laden with a bunch of green grapes, a warm washcloth and a mug of tea.
"This is special Australian tea," she explained. "It has berries and leaves in it that you can eat."
I sipped the tea, but declined munching on the foliage.
I think I know why the Aborigine guy was clearing his throat so much on that CD. He probably drank too much of that "special" tea.