Spaaaaaaaaaaaa.

So I've never really been much of a spa girl. In fact, whenever I say it, I feel the need to draw out the 'a'. Spaaaa. Reaaaaally top draaaawer. I appreciate massages and skin care and the importance of having cuticles that are trimmed to reduce the urge to peel off layer after layer of my thumb skin. I get it, and I enjoy it, but at the same time, I feel a little awkward and bourgeoise about strangers exfoliating my face or painting my toes and my aversion to strangers touching me naked most definitely gets in the way of most professional massages. I'm not used to it. Growing up, my mom and I never did the thing that some women do where we go and sit in robes all day and take baths in tea. Though if we did, it'd probably be fish-out-of-water comedy hilarious. The closest I ever came to any of that was convincing my parents to let me sign up for a gym membership my junior year in high school. The closest I ever came to using that gym membership was running around a track and stomping on an elliptical machine with Liz every now and again, and we'd almost always close out our sessions with a trip to the local ice cream barn.

However, far be it for me to posses a gift certificate and not use it. After all, aside from my general dismissal of all things time consuming and high maintenance, the only thing that really keeps me from being a bourgeoise wench is general lack of funding. So when I was given a gift certificate to a spaaaa for my birthday recently, I decided to investigate. Get a load of this description:

Cross the threshold of SPAAAAA THAT SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS and be transported to a sprawling, sumptuous oasis where the ancient techniques of a world-class European spa blend with modern advances in health and science.

Slip out of the real world and lose yourself in a delicious, over-sized robe. Breathe in exotic scents. Sip cool drinks that echo with ethereal flavors. Surrender to the desire to indulge your body and delight your senses for an hour or two. Or spend the entire day.

A sprawling, sumptuous oasis? In West Hollywood? You don't say. And well, if it's European, you know it must be good. No one would ever brag about their American spa. There's nothing luxurious about America except, you know, freedom. And a delicious robe? Are we supposed to eat it? Nothing grates on my nerves quite like an inappropriate adjective, sarcastic or not. Robes are not delicious. Tater tots are not sexy. Robes can be fuzzy, they can be plush, they can be luxurious, but unless that robe is made out of Chipotle burritos, it is far from delicious. And I guess I'm going to have to find out what exotic scents I will be breathing and what ethereal flavors will enhance my echo-y beverages. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was headed to Narnia.