THE TOP TWO WAYS I KNOW I’M NOT A GIRLY ENOUGH GIRL
#1: Facial Hatred
Sometime last month, I scheduled a long overdue facial, determined to finally use the spa gift card I had received two Christmases earlier. As I was leaving for the appointment, Adam innocently said, “Have fun!”
“LIKE THAT’S GOING TO HAPPEN!” I hissed, giving the door an extra firm slam on my way to the garage.
It occurs to me that I may have a genetic mutation in my girl code, some tangled bit of DNA that makes it impossible for me to enjoy any kind of spa service. I still go, because I’m vain and shallow and self-absorbed, yet it feels off somehow to pay someone else to clean my skin, to have another woman frown sternly at the same pores I frown sternly at every night in the bathroom mirror.
And then there’s the conversation compulsion. Sit me in a reclining chair and slap a eucalyptus mask on me and I am suddenly the World’s Chattiest Person. I suspect this is connected to the weird guilt thing—someone else is sloughing off my dead skin cells and I should therefore reciprocate any demonstration of personal interest.
In that chair, I put Pulitzer-winning investigative journalists to shame, following up on every conversational lead, ekeing out gritty details I never really needed to know. At this last appointment, I determined where the aesthetician’s daughter went to school, the location of her son’s girlfriend’s cousin’s bakery, her preferred choice of seafood markets, and also her biggest pet peeve about her husband (damn snoring). If I had tacked on a bikini wax I would have had time to get her Social Security number, but that would have used up the gift card entirely and I’m too cheap for that.
By the time I was done, I was exhausted. Honestly, I’m not sure a well-maintained T-zone is worth all that.
#2: Choice in Sleepwear
Once every so often, perhaps while walking by a Victoria’s Secret or watching a lingerie-centric scene in True Blood, I’ll ponder why it is that I own so little delicate nightwear. How is it that my drawers are so light on the lace, yet so heavy on the fleece and practical cotton? At what point in my 32 years did I abandon all pretense of femininity after 10:00 p.m.? I fear this is further proof of the girly-girl gene gone wrong.
Don’t believe me? Fine, photographic evidence it is. I present to you tonight’s sleepwear, in all its t-shirty glory:
Sigh. I TOLD you. Now I’m off to paint my toenails or pick wildflowers or something else…girlish. Obviously, I need the practice.
#1 rule of the spa – do not talk during spa treatments – it is time to relax !!!
What would you say to me if I told you I never had a facial? Just a hypothetical question, of course…
You are not alone! I am so not a spa girl. On vacations I’ve paid for my daughters to get something done, but I sit and watch. And daydream. THAT is my idea of a treatment.
don’t feel bad; i sleep in the husband’s undershirts. sexy!
Never had a facial, and it’s t-shirts all the way here. Pajamas are meant to be comfortable, I say! Who needs girly-girls anyway?
Gah, i wish i could agree, but I just can’t. I love, love, LOVE any and every kind of spa days.
Um I have that exact shirt. *high five*
I do love me a spa day though.
I know. I usually bring a book or magazine and try to read, but then I feel guilty because I’m not being entertaining enough for my poor pedicurist…
Spa-inspired chattiness is why I rarely get my hair cut resulting in me often looking like a muppet.
Muppets don’t look great in lingerie BTW.
Not suppose to talk during spa time. But I tend to do it too lol.
Here’s a fun fact. I still wear my MATERNITY pajama pants. Not to sleep, mind you. (Gah, too restricting!) Just to answer the door and hang about the house in.
It’s a wonder they even stay on my body any more.
P.S. Can you have a giveaway for that Chuck Norris shirt? Because I need it like I need air to breathe.
and that is why I’m frightened of Spas! I tend to slather some sand on my legs while at the beach, wrap a towel in my salt seasoned hair, and call it a “treatment”.