Pardon My French

I had a lot of pre-conceived ideas about what it would be like to spend time at a day spa. TV had me imagining myself in a bath robe, lying in a recliner chair, my skin coated in a cool green goop, cucumber slices over my eyelids all the while listening to “The Very Best of Enya.”

As fate would have it, that’s not quite how things are done at traditional Korean spas.

A few months ago, my friend Holly bought us a Groupon to a day spa: an afternoon of soaking in a jacuzzi tub, drying off in a sauna and a relaxing massage and body scrub. Time got away from us, though, and this offer was scheduled to expire within days. We made the decision to head over late one Saturday afternoon.

I met Holly inside the lobby of the huge building and we followed a series of hallways and elevators to the area of the spa designated for women. (Fun Fact: There’s a separate spa for men.)

At the front desk, we struggled a bit with the language barrier as we checked in for our body scrub and massage appointments. After they found our names in their appointment book, we were each handed a key with a number on it (mine was #9) and a corresponding numbered plastic container that closely resembled the bins you put your carry-on luggage and shoes into when you go through airport security. These bins each contained two towels and a bathrobe.

Because we experienced some difficulty with even basic communication, other than a woman pointing her finger in the direction opposite of where we can in, we had no idea where to go.

We shuffled down a narrow hallway, just completely captivated by how brand new and immaculately clean everything looked. I remember mentioning aloud how I thought that this spa might be a nice place to take my mom and sister when they came to visit.

We found the locker room and numbered storage locker’s without issue, put robes on over bathing suits and started looking for the massage rooms. Right away, we both noticed that there were a lot of people wandering around the locker room stark naked, without a care in the world. I smiled to myself, thinking about how my Michigan upbringing included lockers room full of teenage girls going to great lengths to ensure that we fully covered ourselves up as we changed after gym class and swim practice. (Man, the Midwest is prude!)

While looking for these private rooms, we noticed that the sign on the door leading out to the spa mentioned that no clothing of any kind was allowed. It wasn’t until another we talked to another English-speaking white girl (an ethnic spa veteran, it turns out) that we really understood what Naturaspa was all about.

It boiled down to this: We were at a naked spa. If we wanted to use any of the spa’s amenities: Jacuzzi tubs, steam sauna, dry sauna or any of the number of “Jade” and “Clay” rooms, we would have to go in our birthday suits. Because we were signed up for massages and body scrubs, that meant that we would again have to be completely naked AND share a room with other naked people who would also be receiving massages. Those bathing suits and bathrobes were gonna have to come off.

At this point I realized that it’s a good thing that 1.) I’m open-minded, 2.) I’m secure with myself, and 3.) Holly and I are such good friends.

We ventured into the spa area, wearing nothing but our flip flops, passing other naked bodies as we walked, and acted like this was the most natural thing in the world for us to be doing.

As we entered, we noticed the small enclosure, where there were at least two dozen people lying on massage tables. Each was being aggressively rubbed down and massaged by chubby Korean women, all of whom were wearing matching black bras and panties.

We presumed that we needed to wait our turn and stood nearby, trying not to make eye contact or awkwardly stare at anyone in the massage area. After a few moments, one woman in the standard issue black bra/panty uniform came over and pointed at the showers to convey that we would first have to rinse off.

So we wandered over, washed with soap and water, and a few minutes later were back in position one: waiting for our massages.

Another Korean spa employee came over to us and indicated that we weren’t getting it. We needed to back over to the showers and stay there until we were called. Embarrassed, we walked back over to the bathing area and each obediently took a hand-held shower head off the hook.

After several minutes, I was pretending to be cleaning myself (I had finished earlier!), when I heard someone yell “NUMBER 9!” with a heavy Korean accent. My locker number! So, it was… my turn? I stepped apprehensively in the direction of the massage area and stuttered something about how I was the number 9 that they were looking for. A member of the spa’s staff, her stomach exploding over her black bottoms, grabbed my by the arm, lead me into the massage enclosure and then pointed to the table where I was supposed to lay down.

As soon as I got situated, she dumped a bucket of warm water on me and started forcefully scrubbing my body with a sharp sponge. I winced in pain. This was not the gentle body exfoliation I had imagined when I forked over my $40. I didn’t feel relaxed or warm and fuzzy inside. When fully analyzing my situation, I felt like this was what showering in prison might be like.

It took a little while for me to phase out my surroundings and to just enjoy the scrub and massage; to just completely let go.

When the scrub was over, some 25 minutes later, the massage began. It was overall much more comfortable and relaxing– I just had to adapt to the buckets of water being dumped across my body every few minutes (to get rid of excess oil) and the fact that the masseuse would slap my leg whenever she wanted me to turn over. She was really good at what she did as she managed to work out my muscle knots and every bit of tension in my body.

After about a half hour, she put a green cucumber mask on my face (this was very cold, as though it had just come out of the fridge), washed my hair and then said something in Korean to let me know that she was finished.

I sat up feeling light headed and a bit high. She was clearly used to this reaction and gave me her hand in order to help me pull myself to my feet. With a goofy smile on my face, I wobbled my way back over the showers. I liked the tingly feeling on my skin and how smooth my arms felt– It made any pain I felt earlier completely worth it. I felt like a new woman.

We spent another hour or so hitting the hot tubs, (avoiding the ice baths) socializing with other naked people, and exploring the spa’s dry and steam saunas (both of which I found to be way too hot to tolerate) before we grabbed our towels and hit the locker room.

Overall, I view my visit to Naturaspa (AKA: The Naked Spa) as a truly cultural experience and a unique way to relax and bond with my friend Holly. Aside from a pretty gnarly yeast infection (oils are always a risky business), I regret nothing.

Finally, from this experience I learned that when buying a daily deal spa day pass for a friend or family member, you should make sure you Google it first. Your best friend, Mom or grandma might not be into getting naked with a bunch of strangers.

I had such an affinity for the 2011 calender that hang above the desk in my bedroom. So much so that I was actually a bit sad when the pages stopped turning and the year came to a close.

The calender was a collection of German pop artist Heiner Meyer’s “glamour” portraits of 1950s movie starlets. Meyer works with iconic photographs and pictures of Audrey Hepburn, Marilyn Monroe, Grace Kelly and Elizabeth Taylor (to name a few) paints over and modifies these images to integrate them into the totality of the work. The end result is totally unique and beautiful.

I kept the calender hanging on my wall until yesterday, when I decided it was finally time to order a new one.
(NOTE: I still do the whole archaic, paper wall calender thing because I love the satisfaction of crossing off days as they pass and seeing the whole month ahead of me at an immediate glance.)

I couldn’t bring myself to throw the calender away, so I set it aside in case I decided to get crafty with it later. It turns out that urge came to me today.

There were some small holiday cookie tins collecting dust in one my kitchen cupboards, and they inspired me to make some decorative gift boxes. This was the end result:

I almost don’t want to give them away.

There’s no such thing as “too much coffee.”

Found this typewriter key necklace today and couldn’t resist. It’s an absolutely perfect symbol of the history of our relationship.

Thanksgiving dinner was never an especially favorite ritual of mine.

We usually spent the holiday with some of my parent’s friends, a group of people who I’ve spent some holidays with as long as I’ve been alive. When it gets right down to it, though, we don’t know anything real about one another: only the most superficial stuff. My parents would discuss with these people what kinds of activities we’ve been up to, what kind of grades we’d received and pass around photos of how we looked on picture day and at the homecoming dance the previous year. We don’t know anything about each other as people.

We’d all sit in our assigned seats around the dinner table and eat our dinner at 1 p.m. Our accolades were shared, compared, quietly judged. Afterward, the children were instructed to go down to the basement for the remainder of the party while our parents drank and talked about the good old days, the times before we all were born. It never strayed from this formula.

I remember one year that the topic of marriage came up during dinner. A man who is a sort of faux-uncle to my sister and me asked the table what age we all thought was the ideal time to get married.

My “cousin” spent a few minutes describing her dream “Tiffany & Co. wedding.” Everyone else didn’t seem to give it a whole lot of thought, and one by one, revealed what age they considered to be the perfect time to get married.

When it came to be my turn, I admitted that I thought the question was silly. “You shouldn’t force the concept of marriage by pinning down an age that you must to be married by,” I said. It shouldn’t be a question of age, because if you truly live your life as its meant to be lived, you’ll never know when you fall in love. Whether you’re 30 or 90, you should get married when you’re ready to–and if you aren’t ever married, it shouldn’t be frowned upon. My sister nodded in agreement. Otherwise, I collected a bunch of blank stares and the subject was quickly changed as though I’d said nothing at all.

Holiday tradition resentment aside, marriage has never been part of my plan.

I didn’t spent my childhood dreaming about what my wedding day would be like. I didn’t play wedding with my Barbie dolls, make crayon drawings of my dream dress or include a bridesmaid dress color palette in my MASH games.

In adolescence, this turned into a full on: “I don’t want to ever get married,” which didn’t seem set well with a lot of people I knew. But, did they have the right to be surprised? Gays weren’t legally allowed to marry–and everywhere I looked I saw unhappy straight couples, my parents included. It seemed that whatever these couples had at one time loved about one another, it had completely disappeared.

People just didn’t seem to take marriage seriously, either. I would hear all the time about celebrities and reality TV stars becoming divorced within a year of their wedding day. Even “real life” people didn’t seem to fully grasp what it meant to be married. When I worked grocery retail just a few years ago, a guy who was 15 years my senior had recently become engaged. I remember him saying “and if it doesn’t work out, I’ll divorce her. Just like I did the last one.”

Why should the idea of and word “marriage” ever mean anything when its lumped into the same category as the above listed relationships?

When Phil first asked how I felt about marriage, he got an earful. He didn’t disagree with me at all, but I do think that my opinions made him sad. Even with divorced parents and similar life experiences, marriage was important as a symbol to him.

Marriage as a word and concept doesn’t mean much to me even now, years later. The only thing that matters, though, is how I feel about my relationship with Phil. Through thick and thin, we’re there for each other. Even if he got into a car accident and became a Paraplegic, I would be there for him, whether or not there’s a ring on my finger.

Phil’s an optimist and he’s opened my eyes to a world of happiness unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before. He’s my best friend, my soul mate. We take care of each other.

Every morning I wake up, happy that he’s there. Every evening, I come home from work excited to tell him about my day. My love for him only grows stronger with every passing week and month. He colors my world and I couldn’t live life without him.

I have always felt that marriage is society’s attempt to lump us all into the same category. While there’s just no way to compare what I have to what others have, I’ve decided to stop caring so much about this. All that matters is Phil’s and my happiness.