This morning I was one of those girls. One of those girls who gets massages and facials and has the perfect outfit with the perfect shoes and the most perfect handbag. The kind of girl whose quiet confidence and contentedness has nothing to do with being perfect because she doesn’t know any other way of being. Okay, maybe not that last part, but the first part for sure.
This morning I found myself at the Olympus club here in Hamburg. Found might not be the right word. I begged and pleaded with Sparky. Then I begged some more. I pleaded and made logical arguments that justified said expense. Then I remembered i actually finished a job and was getting paid by people who have to pay me and not because they love me.
An aside: I don’t know why I had to beg for it in the first place. You would think he’d be jumping at the chance to put me in that type of mood. After a massage I am so pliable, so agreeable, he could suggest a gang bang and I’d be like “Sure, baby, Whatever you want. Shall I wear the five inch heels?”
Before the massage I did the sauna thing using the full immersion method. This isn’t a language program, it’s jumping into a deep pool of icy water after 15 minutes in the sauna, then going back into the sauna and then jumping back into the icy pool.
I moved on after my polar bear impression to the waiting area where Stefan, my massage therapist greeted me. I like deep tissue massages. It has to hurt. Not many people are strong enough, but Stefan’s grip boded well. Let me tell you, the man knows how to make it hurt. It was fabulous.
After the 90 minute massage, I was like jelly. Its like really great sex without the work. Honestly, I was debating whether or not a massage is the female equivilant to going to a prosititute. It wasn’t erotic, but it could have been. The noises made by clientele are similar. I mean, the lights were off and my eyes were closed and it felt so good and Stefan was doing things to me that I could never get Sparky to do and there was no need to talk, no need to do more han say what felt good and what didn’t and that paying for it thing really absolves me of any responsibility. Honestly, you need to be schooled in the art of massage and no matter what good intentions Sparky might have, there is no way he’d be thrilled with with the idea of 90 minutes of oily fingers.
After Stefan finished doing me up right, I showered, did my hair and makeup. It was like magic. Everything worked perfectly. My hair looked great as did my outfit. I walked out of the spa feeling like one of those perfect women. (Seriously, the secret is in the handbag. A good handbag covers a lot of sins.)
I didn’t just feel the part, I really looked it. I was even walking in my black, pointy, 3.5 inch heels perfectly. I looked hot.
Then I went to lunch. I have this thing about eating with real silverware. I like it. A lot. I want a real meal with real service and people seeing to my every need. I don’t want to touch my water bottle to refill my glass. I want someone to put my napkin in my lap and ask if there is anything else I need so I can say “No, thank you.” because nothing else needs to be done, they think of it all. This happens rarely. Sparky calls me his Luxury Bitch. And you know what? As long as I get it, he can call me what ever he wants.
So there I am, my tandori chicken over a bed of mango risotto and my chocolate sorbet over raspberry cream with a lime sauce a fading memory, content in my aloneness, and enjoying the day. The waiter is very solitious after many qustions about a woman dining alone. I swore after the fifth question that I was indeed, dining alone and that I did not need a table in the corner and no one was going to join me and I did not have a room at this particular hotel. I came for the food and the service and the spa was downstairs.
I finish, pay my bill and walk out, all perfect and serene. I’m looking over the crowd, all content in my perfectness when my perfect heel on my perfect shoe slids out from under me and sends me careening down the five steps from the dais. You know that part of the restaurant that is above the rest of the place. You know, where everyone in the restaurant can see you in your perfect heels fall down those steps and that perfect handbag clocks you in the face as you go down.
It was beautiful. A perfect end to a perfect morning at the spa. This is as close to perfect as I will ever be with Ironus on the job.
I blamed my shoes. So what do we do when we have shoes that make us fall? We buy new shoes.