December 28, 2010

Luxury experiences: The Massage

Not long after my return from the UK, PiC surprised me with a visit to a not quite so local spa. Normally, I schedule my therapeutic massage appointments according to a fairly strict set of PF-guided rules:

1. Very local (to combat the psychological barrier of laziness – I won’t drag myself out to go),
2. Must be some deal that works out to paying about $50 or less for an hour,
3. Doesn’t have to be exceedingly highly rated because if they’re new, it should still be pretty good, but it can’t have already gotten bad reviews.

Flying in the face of all of these, he’d just looked for the most highly rated spa in what he considers a reasonable radius, booked an appointment for me, and told me we were going some place I’d never heard of, in a city that was too far away in my opinion but it didn’t matter because I wasn’t driving, and told me to be ready to leave by a certain time.

He’d already even paid for the massage so I couldn’t cancel it, insisting that it priced comparably with any other 60-minute massage.  Me, feebly, “but, that’s regular price!”  Realized I didn’t even know what appointment was booked after we got there, but as I was ushered from the usual, semi-generic front room to the women’s dressing room (!!) it stopped mattering.

Women’s dressing room? Wha?  My Groupon massages have you undress in the massage room that’s good enough for me… warmed robes? Slippers in a variety of sizes?  A vanity complete with hairdressing supplies for after? Lockers for your belongings?   Befuddlement changed to bemusement.

And of course you shuffle to the next room, berobed and beslippered, into a lounge complete with cushy seats, to sip cucumber water, teas, and nibble on biscotti and muffiny things.

By the time I got to the actual massage, which was the first massage I’ve had since moving that came close to relieving much of my chronic pain in a single session owing much to the skill and technique of my practitioner, not just the warm table, hot towels and prewarmed lotions, I was a muddle of “I should have put more into my FSA.”

To conclude the visit, they even had a small shower room with shower products that flung me back to the early days of dating PiC, ironically enough.  Not leave a massage with lion hair? Yes please!

As much as I’m about stretching every nickel and dime, I’m absolutely tempted to come back to that massage experience even at almost twice my accepted price point.  Yes, I know, lifestyle inflation, but …!

Then again, as I try to gently detach my attachment to the new place, honesty compels me to admit I’ve been cheap on the massage front.  I’ve only been lukewarm about all of the massages I’ve had since moving; they haven’t been very effective because the practitioners I’ve tried so far haven’t been more than ok. This one was the best one not just in comparison but actually practically compares to my friend, the therapist who once routinely pulled all my knots out by dint of knowing me, my medical history and my pain problems.  Add to that my reluctance to schedule appointments and I haven’t actually been spending the budget on worthwhile massages.

This may be a case of being too cheap for my own good.

At best, I might manage one appointment per month or two.  In a year, that’d cost between $600-1200.  That’s quite high.  But in combination with an exercise regimen that expands in scope with each improvement I make, that’s better health and less medication to take.  And taking the long view, if I’m going to get massages, I might as well get the ones that work, no?

Whether or not I ever go back, I’m just happy that it was entirely entertaining to be pampered and that I don’t take one ounce of it for granted.