Still Thinking…

My name is Uja. I am a spa-holic.

I am ashamed to admit that despite the fact that I am a full-grown adult (with a full grown body to reinforce that fact), have 20 people reporting to me at the workplace (yes, that planet with a recalcitrant alien tribe called The Bhemdods which refuses to banish itself from the universe) and a husband to take care of (albeit the fact that he is so far away) – I have lost control of my addiction to spas, scents and kneads. How unbecoming. How weak.

I succumbed on Friday night. I broke the spell of my self-imposed, cold turkey no-spas for 2 months plan. It happened on the night that I felt so lost in Esplanade Mall, all because I have 1.5 hours to kill while waiting for my 66-year-old mother and her equally 60-ish-year old best friend to finish watching ‘Impenjarament’, the play that I helped to translate. I was nursing my dissapointment of not being able to watch the play (not enough tickets, long story) and as I was walking around the Mall toying with the idea of grabbing a cuppa somewhere and continued to read Da Vinci Code, I felt down, moody and in the pits. Pathetic to be caught reading a book in a cafe on a Friday night, I know. In the middle of town, to boot. Cis bedebah! Sungguh tak sanggup.

Suddenly, my heart raced. My breathing was shallow. My pupils must have dilated. And my brown hijab must have turned blonde. As I was standing on the escalator on the way to the cafe to reconcile my conscienciousness with my pathetic Friday night life, I saw a huge sign right in front of me. It says Kenko Wellness Spa…..the 3 letter word at the end of the sentence was so inviting, I did not realise that by then, my mouth was 10 cm dilated. It was short of oozing foam.

I hurried myself into the apparent heaven. There is respite after all. I must have talked so fast to the reception counter, that the next thing I know I was seated plumply on a white seat, warm orange hues enveloping my tired eyes and a soothing score of xylophonic symphony started meandering its waves through my ears. Aaahh…blissss.Bring it on!

It was barely 5 minutes after that I realised I have walked myself into a reflexology-based spa. This is no aromatherapy-based one. There are no warm hands kneading my frenzied nerves. No strokes, no gentle movements. I was horrified at the pain that the therapist inflicted on my fragile toes, but I could not run. I could have told her to stop, paid and walked out of the new agey reflexology centre, but do I really want to read a book in a cafe on a Friday night? Thoughts of being booed and visions of waiters walking past me and making the L sign on their foreheads were threatening my ego. Gosh, it was a painful thought. All that tasawuf reading did me no good, I chided myself. Banish the ego, woman! Save yourself from the pain of traditional Chinese torture. Go to the cafe and swallow the stares, I battled.

But, I failed to fight. Instead, I closed my eyes and grit my teeth, day dreamed about my husband and tried every way to distract myself from the therapist’s punishment to me. Serves me right. I blew another $103 on an hour of ‘treatment’.

Oh, I am so very ashamed of myself. Someone please, help me hide my head.