You cannot relax to Bob Dylan

Amazingly, I didn't bring back a crippling intestinal problem from Mexico. I was prepared to. We set out with all sorts of pharmaceuticals to combat everything that could go wrong with one's colon. Enough, in fact, that I was afraid we might exceed our weight limit on Air Mexicana given the sheer volume of Miralax and Imodium we were toting. Happily, we never had to use any of it and I stopped looking for a Medivac wherever I went. I attribute this gastrointestinal strength to tequila, handiwipes and the fact that I've stopped licking doorknobs.

Near the end of our trip, my mother-in-law, Charlene, had arranged for a spa afternoon for the two of us. The way to my heart is via a thorough rub down of my body, so of course I was delighted at the prospect and on the morning of, did a little dance in front of Marc that concluded with my saying, "I get a massage! SUCK IT!"

And, oh, how the mighty fall.

After check in and changing into fluffy robes, my masseuse led me back into her room. There was an immediate problem with the language barrier. I speak no Spanish but had been able to get by most of the week by saying things like, "Cazadores! Guacamole!" phrases that, sadly, would not apply in this situation. So I gesticulated, pointing at my back and neck and then at my feet yelling "WORK ON THIS!" at top volume. That always helps, you know. I then made a sweeping gesture down my legs and, with a face that was supposed to convey "You can ignore this part" but I fear mistakenly expressed that I was holding back a fart, we concluded the initial meeting and she left so I could disrobe and crawl under the sheets.

I hung my robe and, now completely nude, started to climb onto the table. Most women will attest to the fact that there are moments when naked that your body does not look it's best no matter how much time you spend at the gym. One of those is when climbing into a bed and wrestling with the sheets before you lie down. The stomach somehow looks like a Shar Pei and things wiggle that really ought not to. I was in this position, trying to push my feet down to the bottom of the sheets when I realized that they were stuck. I had a terrible flash back to college, a time when I mastered the art of short sheeting rather than going to my chemistry lab, and wondered if this was some sort of Karmic retribution of my having trapped so many friends in their beds years ago. I wrestled with the sheets, unable to get my legs to move and somehow completely tangling up my left foot in the process. My body, from the knees up, was entirely exposed.

It was at this point that I heard the soft knocking at the door and before I could scream, "MAYDAY! MAYDAY!" the knob turned, and in walked my masseuse who, taking one look at my stricken face and akimbo body flew to my side and began trying to help me. Unfortunately, she could not, and at this point I was in the midst of severe cold sweats at having a complete stranger so close to my privates. And I KNOW that I was about to let her oil me up and rub me down, but at least with a strategically placed SHEET in play.

Not to take you through all of the grisly details, but she finally took a proactive stance and just ripped the sheet off of the table, releasing me from it's hold with one swift tug. I wasn't sure I could go on after this without being simultaneously bathed in gin, but there we were, with no bar in sight, and I was going to ENJOY THIS MASSAGE, dammit.

So she began, and I tried to regain some of my composure...my dignity had clearly left the premises and was probably enjoying happy hour in the hotel lobby. That slag. I was trying to breathe and forget what had happened earlier while my masseuse started in on my neck and shoulders. Tinkly music was playing in the background and I felt myself slowly relaxing. Who cares if my vagina had just been on display? Lalala...

"HHHHHHHHNNNNNNNNAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHPSSSSHHHHH!!!"

This earsplitting noise suddenly ripped through the speakers and filled the room with a sound that I can only describe as Bob Dylan being water-boarded. It lasted for a good 6 seconds, causing me to tense suddenly and my masseuse to put inadvertent pressure on a nerve. I joined Bob Dylan with a startled, "GAH!" and then suddenly the room went quiet and the tinkly music resumed. My masseuse paused for a moment and then, satisfied that this audible Sherman Tank wouldn't return, continued her work.

This went on throughout the hour. The speakers suddenly blasting feedback through the foresty noises every five or so minutes, me tensing in response and the masseuse, similarly startled, responding with intense pressure on various parts of my body and me shouting, "OHOWAHHH!" like a crippled walrus whenever she did. This was not exactly the relationship I had hoped to form with this masseuse. A flagrant and unflattering display of nudity followed by my flailing around on her table like I was being gnawed at by fireants.

Finally, I could feel her wrapping up. After a particularly long solo via the speakers and her muttering what I can only imagine where some Spanish swear words under her breath, she moved behind my head and started clattering around in the cabinet that was back there. She had given up any pretense of trying to keep the room peaceful and banged a few doors open and shut, looking for WHAT, I had no idea. Finally the noise stopped, and through my eye pad, I could feel her leaning over me. After one deep breath, she made this little motion resulting in a tiny gong going binnnnnnnggggggggggggggg somewhere over my left breast. I assume that this gong nonsense was to signal the end of your peaceful hour. Instead, I felt like I needed to find a world wherein nothing moved and everything was silent.

I trudged upstairs to our room and Marc came in shortly after, having apparently joined Dignity down at the bar for drinks. He was luminous, happy, relaxed, shiny. I hated him for just a moment. I relayed the events of the past hour and when he finally stopped laughing, Tecate tinged tears rolling down his cheeks he said, "Well, I suppose that hour of suffering was better than dealing with intestinal warfare," making a sweeping gesture at the piles of pills and medications we had brought with us. A Metamucil tablet rolled onto the floor and settled in between some tiles. Then he said a magical, healing word, "Margarita?" The evening got MUCH better from there.

But I'll never be able to listen to Bob Dylan again without cringing, waiting for sudden pressure on my sciatica from some invisible elbow.