A day at the spa is not always a day at the spa for Moms.

Sure it sounds like a delicious treat to be pampered with all sorts of sugar and spice and everything nice being applied, wrapped, steamed and lacquered upon your haggard body; but actually, it can be quite a humbling experience. Only at the spa are we so rudely reminded that we are not runway models, but rather models of the rundown.

I recently was treated to a spa day from my husband. It had been quite some time since I had indulged in such an indulgence.

And I think it showed.

I went into the first room for my European facial--a personal favorite. That is. a favorite once we have gotten past the initial embarrassing barrage of questions.

"How would you describe your skin type?"

"Old."

"Hmmm. Yes, I can see that. Are you allergic to shellfish?"

An interesting and completely horrifying inquiry. I wondered if my skin was so bad that it resembled a Maine lobster, or if the only way to adequately exfoliate me is to throw me overboard an ocean liner and hope I wash up on shore like a weathered piece of beach glass.

I determined rather quickly that it must be the latter, because she then shone a lighthouse-grade bulb in my face to guide the Titanic to safe harbor in my huge pores. But at least I could lay there with my eyes closed as she began this lengthy and perfumed process, and didn’t have to see the look of horror on her face as she tried to beautify skin whose only attention is the occasional oatmeal mask I get from the baby's spoon when she flings it at me. When she removed her welder's goggles and announced she was done an hour later, my face felt wonderful, but my ego was slightly bruised.

I thought that perhaps the pedicure would be less intrusive. After all, I have not abused my feet much by cramming them into high heeled shoes for years since I've been barefoot and pregnant for the last decade and a half. But I was wrong.

There are unspeakable things that happen during a pedicure. There are medieval instruments and procedures used that even Mitt Romney would deem torture. And as a female member of this species, I have had a pre-birth pact with my sisters not to divulge what we do for the sake of beauty. It is not so much a matter of "if I told you I'd have to kill you" as much as if I told you, you would want to kill yourself.

The day rounded out with a massage. I must confess, I have mixed emotions about this particular treatment. I know I am supposed to relax during the session, but I'm a mother of four being asked to disrobe in front of a stranger and then lie face down on a table with my eyes closed so that someone can look at a body part I myself have never seen. This is disconcerting to me. What if I have some tragic birthmark in the shape of Elvis' profile on my spine? At the very least, I know I must have a variety of bruises from my 4 year old masseuse who graces me with an invigorating home treatment at 2 a.m every night. Perhaps a professional is moot, since I have phantom limbs beating on my spleen all day anyway.

So I'm not quite sure if I end the day $150 prettier than when I started, but please don't tell my husband.

Because walking around in a bathrobe with green stuff smeared on my face while reading trashy magazines without "Sports" anything in the title for a couple of interrupted hours-- is a beautiful thing.

©2008 Tracey Henry

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