The bamboo bowl wraped in celophane and tied up with teal and lime green ribbon contained a collection of various birthday artifacts for Blaine: a lavender coffee cup incribed with the word "passion", a bag of Starbucks breakfast blend, a couple Godiva bars, and a CD of the Saint-Saens Organ Symphony recorded at Notre-Dame de Paris. Tucked away towards the back was an envelope which entitled both of us to an hour of sheer bliss and relaxation at Spa Mizan: a couple's massage. Last Monday, I took a snow day. One day a month I reserve an entire day on which I never appear at the shop. I never announce these days in advance. Of course my shop helper, Ethel, knows, but otherwise, it's a secret. This method is more for my personal benefit -- it completes the idea that indeed I am ducking beneath the radar and somehow can transform myself into a tourist in my own town, at least for a day.
Having had our pedicures at 11, the clear polish dried, we arrived at the spa. This place is relaxation central. Even the staff who welcome your arrival are calm. Everything in time. The ritual of the spa is so appealing, not only because it's so utterly enjoyable, but because it's so ancient. Being shown through the spa labyrinth until finally, you are requested to recline on the table, face nested in the cradle, to be transported to another realm. On a typical day, I sit at my place and focus on detailed stitching. Result: stiff shoulders and neck. As soon as she went to work, the stiffness began to wane, and my body took on the consistency of a jelly fish. The quickest hour ever. A perfect snow day.
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