I’m considering letting myself go.  I have bleached, plucked, waxed (in places where hot wax should never go), poisoned, plumped, burned, starved, purged, peeled, squeezed, yanked, sucked and limped on my tippy-toes in excruciatingly painful stilettos just to find some measure of beauty and attractiveness.  None of it has resulted in any real movement in my love life in…um…well, a really long time is all I’m sayin’, people! 

 I know it’s awfully early in the New Year to be considering chucking all my resolutions, but I had a hard-earned epiphany about this whole beauty thing.  Let me explain…

 My friend E (will avoid real names in this post) suggested that a few friends have a spa day.  Friends in attendance for the spa day:  E – a gorgeous former model (I wanted to secede from the friendship when I learned of her cover-girl past, but it was too late. She’s actually really funny and nice, darn it, and the only other person I know who can out-drink me);  M – a Portuguese goddess visiting from Lisbon;  D – very tiny and uber-fit athletic woman from LA;  and then there’s me – um…none of the above. 

E explained that she found a spa in Korea town that gave these transformational massage treatments for cheap.   Going to a Korean spa didn’t really strike me as something to worry about. I like new experiences, so Korean was like trying a new restaurant. Why not? And a spa day falls under the ‘get healthy’ resolution, right?  E also tried to warn me that there would be lots of nakedness at the spa, meaning no robes, but we’d be given a towel. That seemed reasonable to me.

I do not blame E for my misunderstanding of what ‘goin’ nakie’ really meant. I expected a beach-sized towel to cover my private parts. What I got was a hand towel.  I gave E what I hoped was a frightful look that communicated, ‘surely this is not the towel you referenced,’ but alas, that towel was all we got and it was useless. If I held it up length-wise in front of me, I’d still have to choose between covering one breast, the other or my nether regions.   My behind was completely out of the question.  E explained to me that the towel wasn’t really necessary because it was just so wet in there anyway.  I’ll come upon this in a minute.

For the first half hour, we jumped between a series of hot and cold pools. We were told that this was to get our circulation going, but I now know that it was a method to break our will.

Four Korean women wearing black lace lingerie walked into the pool area.  Before I could say, “HEY! How come they get to wear underwear and we don’t?,” I realized these were the masseuses and the lingerie was their work uniform.  I admit that this did strike me as odd, but on the other hand, being the only women in the room with some kind of clothing on, they seemed safe…and hygienic. They motioned for the four of us to follow them, and we did.

E and M were taken to one room while D and I went into another. I wouldn’t call it a massage room, but more like a massage bunker.  There were multiple tables lined up in a row and no curtains or dividers for privacy.  Still 100% naked, we were told to lie down on the tables face-down. D got about a 2-minute head start on her massage while I tried to sort out where I could lay my little hand towel. Yes, I was still clinging to it like Linus and his blanket even though it offered me no protection at all. The woman who was to perform my massage yanked the towel out of my hand in exasperation and told me to ‘lie down!’

I guess in Korea, before one gets a massage, one must be scrubbed clean.  So, my Korean masseuse put on two gloves apparently made out of cacti and began a very angry rub-down.  As she scrubbed, I could see specs of epidermis dropping to the floor. More concerning was her lack of sensitivity as her gloves met my ‘cracks and crevices.’  My butt cheeks went on auto-clench.  Kind of a self-preservation thing.

When she had completed the back half of my body, she slapped me and said, “Turn over!” My mind began to play out the possible consequences of exposing the more sensitive side of my body, but I have too much pride (at this point) to be the first one to back down and since everyone else was still on their respective tables, I wasn’t leaving either.

I turned over, as instructed, and she began to de-skin the other half of my body. At some point, she made a very unapologetic and abrupt scrape over my private region. No, not the breasts, though they had already been abused, flung-about, nipples clinched, etc. I mean the lower portion.  I thought it might have been a slip, but then she bent my leg and pushed it up into my stomach. I thought, “there’s no way she is going to take that Brillo pad to my vajayjay!” but yes, people, that’s exactly what she did.

Apparently, “NOOOOO!” does not translate in Korean. The truth is I don’t think I managed to scream anything. Forming actual words would have required super-human brain functioning under this kind of torture.  It was like one of those nightmares when you’re trying to scream but no sound comes out. Instead, I laid there, traumatized, and let her do what she wanted to do with her Nazi gloves.

Then, my masseuse took my right arm and tossed it over to the left side, and said, “side!” I said, “What?” as ‘side’ did not actually sound very much like ‘side’ with a harsh Korean accent. “SIDE!” she said again and picked up my right leg and slammed it onto the left side of the table. I realized that she wanted me to turn to my side, so I did, but I laid there, leg on leg, in a stiff military position. Her rant in Korean made it clear that I wasn’t doing it right, but I didn’t know what exactly I was doing wrong.  So, she bent my right leg and shoved it on the table, allowing her to find and scrub more nooks and crannies than I knew I had. I thought, “if she scissors me, I’m going to need therapy.” It occurred to me that D was also on her side and her view was of me literally getting my behind wiped….as if the experience itself wasn’t horrific enough.

When the scrubbing was over, she took a bucket of hot water and tossed the water over my body to rinse off any soap residue or left-over skin. Then she turned me over and doused me again with the hot water.

Next, she began the massage portion. She slathered me with oil, which made my whole body quite slippery. She pulled my arms up over my head in an attempt to do a Thai-massage-like stretch, and I knew she expected me to stay put…and I wanted to, believe me. Instead, my body skidded off the side of the table like a car on ice. She gave me an angry look…because clearly it was my fault. I felt ashamed.

Now, remember that my massage is on about a 2-minute delay to D’s massage. About this time, I start hearing slapping and popping noises coming from her table, which wouldn’t be concerning if they sounded consensual….but they didn’t. I looked over at her to see how she was doing. D's face was grimaced and contorted, and then I heard her say, “No! Stop! It hurts!” Now, whatever has caused her to finally succumb and ask for mercy I realize is about to happen to me in under two minutes. My heart started to pound because I wanted to cry uncle, but am now this Korean woman’s bitch and have lost all verbal ability.

Then I remembered in S&M play, there must be a ‘safe word.’ But I wasn’t given a safe word.  Maybe if I just started spouting off words, something would make her stop.  I threw out the only Korean word I could remember from my Taekwondo days, “Shijak!”  But wait…that’s the word the referee says right before a sparring match, so I think it might mean ‘attack!’  New word, new word…um…Apple Pie!  No, she’s Korean, so maybe Kim Chee! Or Kim Jong-Il! That might make her REALLY mad, and no one wants that, so how about ‘Sweet mother of God, stop doing that!!’?

Before I could think of a safe word (much less blurt it out), the slapping and the pounding started. It was here! Death was upon me! And then….it happened. She took her evil, sharp fingers and dug them into the base of my skull. Pain shot from my head to my big toe, and my whole body started to twitch. Still she dug her fingers even deeper. Oh, bring back the Brillo pad, please!!!! God, help me! And just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, she released me.  I tried to say, ‘bless you, mistress,’ but my body had gone into shock-induced convulsions and all I could get out was a kind of dying-whale-like whimper.

More scalding water, and then she flipped me over again. She took a hot towel (I didn’t know this place HAD towels!) and wrapped it around my head and face. Now, I’m EXTREMELY claustrophobic, so having a towel wrapped around my head was just too much for me (like everything else up to this point had been so tolerable).   I reached up to pull the towel off, and she grabbed my already raw, sore and very weak arm and pinned it under my back.

Then, she started to slap on a facial mask that I’m guessing contained cucumbers and…I don’t know…mayonnaise? Something white.  (Yes, I know, I know.)  The mask was thick and she covered my entire face, including my eyes and my nose so that my only option was to breathe through my mouth (while trying to avoid getting a taste of the mysterious creamy stuff).  My eyes were also squinted shut to avoid getting ‘mystery mask’ in the eye, but that wasn’t good enough for her.  She strapped on a hot blindfold for reinforcement. At this point, I can’t see and can barely breathe, yet she feels the need to wrap another hot towel around my head. Mind you, my body is shivering and uncovered. My bits and pieces are hanging out for the world to view, but my head is in a cocoon of towels and duck semen for all I know.

She leaves me there – blind, naked, facialed by a duck, and gasping for air. I can’t see where she went, but I know she’s not there. I don’t hear D either, so I assume she’s been taken to a dungeon and locked up for her earlier outburst. Anxiety begins to build. What if I die here?  (I would find out later that there is actually a sign on the wall that says ‘no dying!’ It’s possible they meant ‘no dyeing,’ but do they really have a problem with people bringing t-shirts in for tie-dyeing? I don’t think so.)

My masseuse finally returned and gently touched my hand. I was overcome with relief.  Maybe I had over-reacted.  Maybe this was one of those ‘cleansing’ massages  -  you know where the pain is symbolism for all the blockages that are holding you back in life and if you could just let them go, peace and harmony would reign for eternity.  Maybe I was becoming enlightened through my suffering.

I was starting to float into a spiritual trance when she drenched me again with scalding water. Then it occurred to me that she had not once wiped me with a rag or a towel. While I wanted that cucumber/semen mask off of my face asap, I started to think about how she was going to wash it off.

Oh my God, she’s going to waterboard me!!!!

After another scrub down with the Brillo pad, she put her hand behind my back and told me to sit up. I was blind, raw and slippery, and my coochie was squeaky clean. Sitting up was harder than it sounds, trust me. I used my hands to steady myself, and after a few close calls on slipping off the table, I finally managed to sit up. She pushed my face into a bucket of water to rinse off the mask.  While not exactly pleasant, I found this to be a much preferred option to the waterboarding.  

 Finally, I could see and breathe again. The sense of hope caused my eyes to well up with tears.

Before I could get too emotional about it, she slid me off the table and said, “You done now.” I couldn’t look her in the eye, but for some reason which I still don’t understand, I said “Thank you.”

She thrust me out of the massage bunker and into the shower room, still naked and slippery. I’d never felt so violated… and CLEAN! I mean, my coochie was like Kosher clean! If a Rabbi had been there, he would have declared me Kosher for Passover.

My friends were all gathered in the steam room. I could hear them laughing and talking.  Grrrr.  I limped towards the hot bench…a broken woman. While my friends burst into laughter, I sat there, hunched over, tightly wringing my little security hand towel, rethinking my whole raison d’etre.

On the way out, the receptionist handed me a tip envelope, because when someone strips you of your dignity and top layer of skin and leaves you mentally, physically and emotionally naked and battered, it’s customary to tip them.  On the other hand, ‘Amber’ (my Korean masseuse’s name, as written on the envelope, which is more likely her stripper name according to Facebook) now knows me better than anyone on the planet. She has seen more of me than my ex-husband.  I figured that was worth an extra 20 bucks.

Afterward, the aforementioned epiphany happened.  It occurred to me that I’m not the woman I thought I was.  As it turns out, I don’t want to be toned, firm, silky-smooth and beautiful THIS badly.  If I’m going to live a sexless existence anyway, I could at least make it a happy, torture-free, sexless existence.  I should just shut up about it and be the calloused, chubby, possibly sandy-blonde (possibly salty blonde…who knows), 5’5’’, wrinkling around the eyes, pubescent woman that I truly am, and then I would never have to see the likes of ‘Amber’ again. 

Of course, I am going to Vegas this weekend…and I have that Victoria’s Secret Spring catalog launch party to attend with my client (the one that does their airbrushing).  What does one wear to a Victoria’s Secret launch party?  Certainly nothing calloused or chubby.   Plus, I hear John Mayer might be there.  I’ve never seen him with a calloused, chubby, anything other than blonde, toned skinny woman who could pose for Victoria’s Secret, have you?  Maybe he’d like to feel some silky-smooth, freshly re-grown epidermis. 

So, new plan:  I’ll just go get a mani-pedi, tidy up with a quick waxing, spandex myself into a little black dress, put on my sparkly heels, hit the Vegas strip, and THEN I’ll think about letting myself go…unless of course I come back no longer involuntarily celibate, and then I’ll need to send ‘Amber’ a larger tip plus schedule weekly sessions.