A Journey Through Spa(ce &) Time

Although I resisted at first, my wife won a stunning victory versus my manhood several years ago. I’m not talking vasectomy. I still have the option of having another child and choose not to exercise it. I’m not talking lap dog. We have a medium sized dog who cannot fit in a purse by any stretch of the imagination.

The estrogen-eric victory of which I speak is spa time. We went to a spa together several years ago and I’m not afraid to admit that I thoroughly enjoyed it. We’ve been back several times since then and I have usually been the one to push for it.

I have thus far refused to participate in a couple’s manicure or pedicure. I have disgustingly ugly feet and I prefer to keep it that way and I don’t think I’ve trimmed by fingernails with anything other than my teeth in over a decade. I also plan to keep my haircuts between me and the barber rather than go to the salon section of the spa facilities for reasons I’ve explained before (see March 9th post).

Yet my spa experience isn’t as simple as getting a massage and then waiting somewhere for my wife to finish her other services. I find comfort in the robe and sandals and mood lighting in the quiet room. Which aromatherapy scent I choose during my massage is a decision I take seriously. My taste for new age relaxation music has even grown.

There is a fine line being walked.

Still, I willingly admit that spa time is awfully relaxing. When I leave from a day or even weekend away with my wife, I feel rejuvenated. My joints ache less, my muscles are relaxed, my mind is clear. I will even recommend the experience to any manly man who is resisting his wife’s pleas to go with her.

You may think that this makes me less of a man. And you may be right. But hear me out on one point.

Being a man is an art. One of the most fundamental aspects of this craft is sitting on your ass. Men have been honing this skill since the beginning of time. Some of us spend entire careers developing new ass-sitting technology. The inventors of the recliner, the remote control and Monday Night Football, just to name a few. The list goes on. Many men work long, hard hours for years upon years just so they can save up enough money to cash in on all their ass-sitting time at once and do so uninterrupted. This is a fine tradition of manhood know fondly as retirement.

Considering the craftsmanship inherent to sitting on one’s ass, I call myself a pioneer. I am out there researching new and better ways to relax and unwind. Going to the spa is like batting practice. I’m keeping my ass-sitting skills refined so that when my retirement comes around, I’ll know how to relax with the best of them.

So consider me a traitor to the cause if you will. Ostracize me for entering the den of estrogen that is the spa. But when I have my time to sit on my ass, the way I sit down, unbutton my pants and sigh will be the envy of everyone. Just you wait and see.