What Kind of Spa is This?!

"There is nothing more frightful
than ignorance in action."
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe~

When I have a bad day, a bad week, a bad moment...I like to be kind to myself. Sometimes it's coffee and a newspaper (reserved for weekends only), sometimes it's picking up a fresh bouquet at the local Greenhouse, and other times I book myself in for a spa treatment.

Keep in mind, when I'm excited about an event, a date or, let's say a vacation, I also book myself in for a spa treatment. Generally I stick to pedicures, the mandatory clandestine waxing or the ever mundane manicure.

I stay away from too many manicures because I hate to see such a pretty set of fingernails chewed up doing housework only hours after the luxury of a manicure. Facials are a treat unto themselves, but make me break out so much that I can only schedule those when I have absolutely no where to go for the next week.

After a couple of impromptu meetings, and a weekend of housework (which I must confess I actually enjoy), I decided that today was a great day to get my little piggies pampered.  They way I timed it, after work I could get to the appointment just in time. If I made my appointment on time, and I took the short cut home, I could pick up my son before the mandatory time and make it to my early class at the gym. Perfect.

So, I got to my appointment, and was seated in the famous massage chair.  I wrapped my pashmina around my back and snuggled in. My bare feet were soaking in a lovely warm foot spa, and I managed to snag this month's Vancouver edition of a fashion rag. Perfect. Lovely. Just what the doctor ordered. That and the Valium I popped last night.

I've yet to find "the" pedicure gal at this spa. I've managed to find the quintessential waxing gal. She does a bang up job. Bad turn of phrase I suppose, but her waxing technique is second to none. She pulls fast and in the right direction and angle. She also does not cheap out on the very special technique of putting pressure on the newly bald area so that the sting disappears. Then she finishes up with a great clean up, and ta-da!!! I'm a smooth machine.

Because I had not requested anyone specific for my manicure, I was not surprised when an aesthetician I had never met took her position on the little stool at my feet.  I was seated in the chair closest to the door. The world was good. As it should be. Then the door opened. A cold, ten-degrees-below-anything-civilized blew across my wet legs.  Crap.

The pedicure continued, but as time wore on I realized that this must be a new aesthetician.  I sorted through the deep dark recesses of my teeny little brain, and came to the conclusion that I had never seen her before. Usually I don't look up from my trash reading at the spa.  After all that's the only time I indulge in reading girly smut, and a key factor in the ambiance of spa-girldom.  I found myself watching this woman go about the pedicure, putting lotion on, exfoliating and buffing in the wrong order. No worries. She was doing ok, and heck...even a mediocre pedicure was better than the last two days. This was taking longer than I had planned, and I might have to forfeit my eyebrow waxing. I was getting a little impatient about time, but I wasn't going to say anything. Despite the cold air from the door sweeping across my legs, I was happy.

The woman one chair over was obnoxiously loud about getting just the right shape to her nails, and yapping like a small house dog about the kind of crap that I was reading about. I kinda wish they handed out disposable gags like the disposable toe separators.  This woman had breached just about every etiquette expectation at the spa. Or so I thought. Little did I know that soon I would be plummeting into the depths of poor taste and spa-etiquette hell.  I was determined to remain in my little bliss bubble for just a little while longer, no matter how obnoxious my spa-mate was.

When I was a teenager, the father of one of my friends, a way-too-old-man-to-have-kids-that-age was prompted by our bad behaviour to say, "Believe it or not, there will be a day when you appreciate good manners and the grace of etiquette." Ne'er a truer word was spoketh

You see, there's always something worse that can happen, and as I sat there having my tender tootsies being attended to by an amateur foot gardener, Ms. Too-Loud-Chatty-Princess got up to leave.  Hallelujah. Or not.

You see, when you go for a pedicure, you have to remove your foot gear. Socks, shoes, boots, pantyhose, whatever you happen to be wearing. Now, I know what it's like not to be prepared for the pedicure appointment. I like to have my legs freshly shaved for instance, so that when I get the little five minute massage the stubble doesn't rub against the aesthetician's latex gloves.  That would not lend itself to feeling pretty if you know what I mean.

So, Ms. Chatty pants gets up, talking all the way, and then proceeds, all the while flapping her lips like everyone in the place needed to know her business and her husband's business - every.....flipping.....intimate detail.

AND THEN IT HAPPENED.....

She got her pantyhose out of her purse and proceeded to pull them on right there in front of me. She could have gone to the washroom, but instead, she hiked up her dress so her bare-thonged-rear-end was hanging out about three feet from my face, and almost touching my aesthetician's head, and bent over!!  SHE BENT OVER with nothing between her girly bits but a flipping thong!!!! G-R-O-S-S!!!

As I was recounting this tidbit about my day to my gym comrades, one of them asked me if Ms.Shameless-Bare-Bum-Blabber-Mouth was British. I answered, "No, and she definitely wasn't Brazilian."

God willing I won't have nightmares tonight about being swallowed whole by a  giant,hairy, toe wearing a thong. Ooga-booga!

To Baby or Not to Baby

I much prefer visiting the gynaecologist than the dentist. I dread seeing the gynaecologist, so you can guess how I feel about the dentist. With the dentist, there’s the pre-emptory small talk, and ongoing natter between the assistant and dentist about weekend plans and weekends at the cottage. Pul-eeze. At least with the gynaecologist, there’s no small talk and forced casualness. You know what’s going to happen. You’re wearing paper, and let’s face it, there’s not a whole lot of conversation that’s appropriate, other than, “Ok. That’s it. I’ll leave and you can put your clothes back on.”

I have been a regular with my “lady” specialist for years, with a history of surgeries and problems as long as my arm. At 19 I was told I wouldn’t be able to have children. Last night I just celebrated my child’s 11th birthday. I have been told through the years that if I’m thinking of having any more children, I need to do it NOW. As a teenager, the idea of having children was something I welcomed even less than a visit to the dentist. It was only after I fell in love and got married that I wanted a child. It was like a switch flipped, and all of a sudden, I wanted children, lots of children. I have dreamt of having a big country house with a huge harvest table where my children and grandchildren would gather for Sunday dinners, holidays, to do homework and come to that kitchen and table, knowing it as a safe, comforting place. When I divorced, as much as my marriage, I grieved all the dreams I had of having a family that could gather me up like snuggling into a warm duvet.

Since then, I have worked, gone to school, and most importantly raised my one and only child. For years I thought, “don’t worry Trish, you’ll meet the right guy one day, and have more kids. You’ll fix all the mistakes you made the first time, and have a great life and family.” It’s been a decade, and I’m still hoping to meet that special person to share my life with. My gynaecological clock has been ticking, and now I think it’s tocked.

My last visit to the gynaecologist felt different. It was as if I had turned a corner in my life and could breathe a little more deeply again. You see, my visits are usually emotional ones. I’m there because something is wrong. Something isn’t working the way it should be, which has always made me feel like I’m not working the way I should be, that I’m somehow not whole because during these prime years of life I haven’t walked around with my proud pregnant belly sticking out that says, I am loved, and I’m loving, and I’m capable of performing the greatest miracle on earth .

The specialist that I go to see has his office in a hospital. The white walls, old granite floors, worn waiting room chairs and seven year old magazines give it all a clinical feel. You are there to be examined. The feeling of wanting another child, and the new life that would represent pushed its way to the conscious surface every time I had an appointment. With watery eyes I would watch the pregnant women walk in, beaming and smiling, holding the hand of their partner or giving those coy little angel smile to the proud grandmother’s to be who would accompany them to the appointments. I sat alone. No mother, no husband, hiding behind worn pages of old housekeeping magazines, feeling like an abandoned car. Tears welled up, and I was relieved when I was finally ushered into the examining room and handed the paper gown.

When was your last period? Do you have any children? How old are they? How many pregnancies have you had? ...The standard questions before you put your legs up and your head back, wishing it was all over. The two most annoying things I’ve ever seen during my many visits to the gynaecologist’s office are pictures on the ceiling above the examining table (believe me, pictures of snow capped mountains and spring meadows are not going to make me forget what’s going on down there), and oven mitts on the stirrups. Oven mitts!? Really a little less patronizing – pul-eeze!

So, during my last visit, I skipped the haute couture gown papier, and oven mitted stirrups and went right into his office. I thought maybe he was firing me. After all, he’s there to help women. I was faulty. I mean I feel like a woman, I look like a woman, hell, I even enjoy being a woman, but let’s face it, my plumbing had become passé. As I sat down expecting my pink slip, my doctor began an actual conversation with me. He talked, I listened. I talked, he listened. Ladies who may be reading this take note; he listens. If you feel, as I have felt a few times that your specialist is not listening, fire them, and find one who cares about what you’re saying about your body.

“Are you trying to have children,” he asked looking up from the results of my last lab work. “I’m trying really hard right now NOT to get pregnant”, I replied with a little chuckle. You see, I’d just finished up an atrocious relationship and the idea of reproducing made a little chill go through me. “I’m not trying to have children,” I said, getting over how hilarious I think I am,”but I don’t want to write off the idea completely yet.” You see, I still have this push pull feeling of, yes, I want another baby, and oh gawd no! I can’t imagine raising another three year old.

I had been struggling with whether to commit to having a relationship that would be healthy enough to nurture another child, or deciding that I indeed did not want to have another baby. The struggle reminded me off an Anne Morris quote on a Starbucks coffee cup, “The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating - in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic , from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.” As a young twenty-something, I had promised myself that I would be finished having my children at 30. When I turned 30, almost five years after my divorce, with a six year old, I decided I would give myself another five years before I decided that I wouldn’t have more kids.

So there I was. 35 years old, still not committed either way to having, or not having another child, on the verge of being fired by my baby doctor. I was exhausted from vacillating between the two options. Despite my dream of having a family, I was getting tired. Tired of carrying a hope that now seemed hopeless. I was starting to dream of other things. Carrying on with, my hobbies, travelling, having a relationship where reproduction wasn’t in the spotlight. That had begun to look like a great place to invest my hopes after years of relationships that would not result in a happy, mommy and daddy home for a child.

Hearing my non-committal answer, my doctor, gentle-yet-to-the-point, said, “If you want to have more children, do it now.” He emphasized “now”, like the word was a flashing neon sign. Now?! I thought. Now? The idea of it made me laugh. There is no way (flashing neon sign emphasis here) that I was going to get pregnant NOW!

Like the first sip of a lemony gin and tonic on a hot afternoon, the reality of my reproductive potential flowed over me. Now? Now. Wow. No way.

What a great way to commit one way or the other. No more babies. I mean, how quickly can you go from first date to proud parents? With the right birth control and the right Cava or Champagne, I can honestly say it would take me at least a few years. In a few years my child will be driving, getting ready to move away to university and the idea of having midnight feedings and potty training makes me shiver. I do not want to do that. Not at this stage. Five years ago – sure. But now? Anyone who knows me would tell you that it will NEVER happen.

I am still sad I don’t have more children. I will always wish I had crafted my path a bit differently, that luck in love would have found me. On the other hand, I am grateful for my one, healthy, happy child. Grateful I’ve been able to provide a stable home and lots of love.

Commitment is indeed liberating. Sometimes we just need a little more perspective before we commit to the right things.