That exactly was how I felt as I found myself stuck inside a cramped, partly humid room at the foot spa yesterday afternoon.
To add to my misfortune, I spent my scrubbing session with two lovely Korean tourists. I had no idea what they were saying to each other while the foot masseuse was inspecting my feet (I imagined them saying: “My goodness, what an ugly pair of feet”). They were probably just enjoying themselves there, but I felt uneasy, embarrassed, paranoid. It couldn't get worse than this. And it's just a foot scrub!
I’m not scared stiff of spas but I’m not fond of them either. Almost a year ago, I had a full-body massage at the same spa, courtesy of a Father’s Day gift from my wife. That was my first time to be inside a massage parlor. (The second time – you guessed it – was yesterday’s visit.) If not for that gift, I would not have meandered into such a place that smells like my spinster aunt’s dresser. Besides, I can always get a massage from someplace else, like the barbershop, or beg for a nice back rub from my wonderful wife.
The gift package consisted of three treats: one, a full-body massage; second, a foot scrub; and third, a facial. After getting that full-body massage (which was fantastic, by the way), I swore never to get a foot scrub. (Why get one? I’m male. I don't need pretty feet.) And I’d rather catch pneumonia than get a facial. Scrubs and facials are for women and metrodorks. But not for me, mama. So I told my wife that we’ll just go to the spa together, and while she’s enjoying the foot scrub and facial, I’ll have two hours of body massage. For obvious reasons, she was thrilled.
But months passed and we never found the time to visit the spa (we always ended up in a restaurant). And yesterday, to my horror, I realized that the soles of my feet were already covered with greenish calluses, which resembled Donald Rumsfeld’s face. (I wear sandals nearly everyday, exposing my manly feet to the elements.) My heels were infested with cracks, which had stubborn dirt for occupants. I was terrified to think that I would wake up one morning to find that the soles of my feet, which by then had transmogrified into a separate living thing, had left its negligent owner.
After failed attempts to purge my soles of the grime (used detergent, didn’t work), I decided to get a foot scrub.
“First time, sir?” the foot masseuse said. Whether the two tourists understood a word, I didn’t give a fart. I was bent on getting this foot scrub business done and over with, the final rite before a man’s walk of shame, only I was plopped on a well-cushioned chair. But I felt sorry for the masseuse. Using this scraper of some sort, he scrubbed my feet, which had been soaked in soapy water, to get rid of the first layer of dead skin, to no avail. So he scrubbed harder, and faster. It was like peeling a coconut using a butter knife. His fellow masseuses had more fun scrubbing supple Korean feet. My masseuse’s stern face betrayed a sense of futility. And this process, which was supposed to be done in 45 minutes, was taking forever.
When it was over – beady lotion, herbal oils, foot massage and all – my feet, to my pleasant surprise, was light as air. The mint cooled the skin, as though fresh breeze was flowing around my legs. I slipped into my sandals: it felt like walking on glass. I touched my heels: they were smooth and soft, like ripened mangoes. I felt like a newborn girl.
When I emerged from the room ahead of the two women, the counter attendant asked if I wanted the facial.
Now this was too much. Having mush lathered on your feet is one thing, but having all that gunk all over your face is another. So having a facial was out of the question. The problem was, my jealous back was telling me it needed some pampering of its own. But since I’ve had enough smelling girly goop, I headed straight to a nearby Thai massage parlor. I heard they never use lotion down there; just some precise finger jabbing on key pressure points. I bet it’s worth the short walk. Besides, I’ve got refreshed, sprightly feet to take me there.
