Aloha Airlines Magazine
Interviewing Brad Pitt for the entire day might have been a better assignment. But instructions to luxuriate in several spas on the Big Island of Hawaii finished a close second. Off I went into a world of steam baths and orchid oils and “Here are your robe and slippers, ma’am,” instead of “Mom, when’s dinner ready?” As I relished the attentive service that reminded me of the times my mother provided comfort during my childhood illnesses, a new clarity replaced the philosophical mire that had plagued my life.
Well, maybe not. But I did discover a wonderful way to separate myself from quite a bit of money. And during the journey, I contemplated why we delight in spa experiences. Some people I talked to felt it helped them focus on themselves and their priorities. Others believed it was the ultimate diversion. Either way, we’re escaping something. Isn’t allowing ourselves this extravagance somehow rooted in self-worth? Isn’t the expenditure and time away from work and family—and the justification of both, even if you call it a health necessity—tied to our self-esteem?
Then again, doesn’t thinking ruin an experience based on the suspension of reality?
My leisure starts with the Hawaiian salt renewal body scrub at the Hilton Waikoloa Village’s elegant Kohala Spa. Kat, my therapist, rubs red clay salts all over my nearly naked body to detoxify and soften, scrubbing off what I imagine to be every last bit of unattractive dead skin. A Vichy shower, with six heads spraying water from neck to toe, transports me to an imaginary field, where a summer rain shower drizzles me with round drops the color of sunshine. She repeats the process with a honey-mango rinse, making me feel as seamless and frothy as a smoothie.
Glowing, I ease into another room for a healing stone massage. Kat lathers her hands in Body Silk with Orchid Oil, the spa’s newest high-end signature aromatherapy product, which seeps into my skin and turns it to butter. She heats up smooth stones, then places them at key points on my body—at the center to warm the chi (where she says the spirit or life force resides), on my neck and between my toes—then uses others to massage my body. A temperate buzz radiates around each stone as it travels alongside firm fingers to loosen my muscles fiber by fiber.
You’re supposed to be working, I tell myself. Think of a question. Something ringing with literary truth.
“What do you like best about giving massages?”
The brilliance of the query forces me to close my eyes and exhale completely, almost missing the answer. Kat says she likes knowing she helped people enjoy their day more. I grunt a syllable, which I’m sure she interprets as a “yes, yes, helping others feel good,” excellent answer. But that’s all I can manage. I don’t make a sound for the following hour.
Next comes the anti-stress aromatherapy facial, which promises “renewed radiance and vitality,” according to the appealing brochure I’m given. Several masques, temple rubs and extractions later, I believe I will see an entirely different face in the mirror. Surely a more attractive visage denotes internal change. After all, isn’t believing we look better an important part of well-being? I appreciate my body, tolerate my skin. Value the hair on my head, yet shave, pluck and wax to defy its existence everywhere else. If I pay someone to fix my weaknesses, won’t I know the expense has been worth it?
Afterward, I shuffle to one of the chaise lounges positioned in the indoor/outdoor garden around a whirlpool to rest before my next treatment. I glance in the mirror. Sans makeup, my face looks flushed. My hair looks like I’ve danced an Irish jig across a downed power line. My robe is barely tied. None of this matters. I don’t even care if anyone sees me naked. I can’t remember if I have any responsibilities in life. Perhaps I’ve just been born, and everybody nearby will take care of my every need. My stomach rumbles. I wonder when someone will bring me food. I glide onto a cushion and stare at the wall until Sa-Ing summons me for my pedicure.
Shallow resentment washes over me when Sa-Ing forces me to use my brain. “What color would you like?” she says, cheerfully.
I hesitate among the rows and rows of polish. “Uh, I don’t know.”
“How about this pink? It’s very popular.”
I smile and nod, ecstatic that she has made the decision for me, failing to consider that I don’t own this color and won’t be able to touch up my toenails until my next pedicure maybe eight months from now. I later recall I had patched the current mauve so many times that the nails were like apartment walls built in the 1930s, painted over and over until the original hue was a mystery even to the owner.
The color crisis over, Sa-Ing becomes my best friend. After all, she is willing to touch my feet. She must be a good person. She flatters me with remarks about my superior running abilities based on the state of my blackened toes, then lets me lose myself in the chair that vibrates heat everywhere it contacts my body.
Guilt. I should ask a question, but conversation seems too difficult. I want to be entirely self-centered, thinking only about how I feel, or escaping those thoughts entirely, not contemplating who needs me and how I might have failed the people around me in the past 24 hours, much less the past 10 years.
While my feet tingle under an exfoliating masque before getting wrapped in steaming towels, I challenge myself with In Style magazine. I imagine that Jennifer Aniston does this sort of thing on a regular basis. Hence, I must be living Jennifer’s life at the moment.
he attention and reading material puts me in the mood for servants. And designer clothes. Maybe a sassy handbag that costs somewhere in the neighborhood of $3,000. I avoid spoiling the moment by reminding myself that I’m a poorly paid writer.
Did I mention that I’m hungry? I bet Jennifer Aniston gets sandwiches delivered to the salon. Why shouldn’t I?
I manage to postpone a fainting spell to finish the pedicure and begin dressing—at which time I face a crisis, a typical phenomenon when re-entering reality. I furrow my brow and curse my stupidity. I’ve worn pants. And boots. Hours of pampering could be ruined with one slip of the foot. I sit down to contemplate my dilemma, wondering if anyone would notice or care if I spend the night in the spa, finally accepting that clothing is the only option. So I inch on the pants, gently. Tears moisten the corners of my eyes. A sigh of relief escapes. The pink on my nails goes unmarred.
At the Fairmont Orchid the next day, I admire my toenails in the sunlight as I stroll to an Oceanside massage cabana at the edge of the beach, shaded in palm trees. Diminutive waves lap the sand a few feet away. Chet, my therapist, begins by unfolding a thick mat he has carried on his back to our breezy location. We don’t use a table in this treatment, he explains. It’s all done on the floor. I am wearing loose shorts and a T-shirt, as instructed. All Thai massage is done through clothing, without oils.
Unlike the completely relaxing experience of the healing stone massage, Thai massage resembles assisted yoga. Chet targets tight areas, particularly around my hips, and moves me into stretching positions that make me wince initially, but soon elicit slack limbs and a universal rejuvenation. In one unusual move, Chet lifts me sideways; the unsupported part of my body droops like a doll carried around for an entire childhood.
Despite the vitality I feel after the Thai experience, I rush back to my suite on the newly renovated, 45-room Gold Floor of the Fairmont, complete with its own guest registration, breakfast, afternoon tea and evening pupu served in the lounge, where every employee will smile and offer to help you plan the next day. But I didn’t need assistance with my book, the remote control and the lounge chair on the balcony.
Fresh, wellness-oriented marketing tags could easily make one forget that the Romans created a lively spa scene several thousand years ago. How could such an ancient concept feel so new? Maybe because we still struggle to accept it into our daily lives.
For me, the previous week filled with sick children, deadlines, a home that seems to constantly spin itself into a state of disorganization and my own flu led me to the self-pitying query: Who will take care of me? A sad thought occurred that my role as wife, mother and employee meant I would most likely have to pay someone. Yet doing this might cost me the martyr status many of us so diligently pursue.
Furthermore, getting to the point of granting oneself permission to spend money not on a child’s education, an electric bill or groceries, but instead on someone rubbing you with scented oils for an hour or two, can be a hurdle. This is why the wellness concept is so effective. It’s justification.
At my next stop, the Mauna Lani Resort & Spa on the Big Island, that justification carries merit. My day begins with a footbath decorated with orchids poised on soap bubbles. Underneath, soft pebbles caress my toes. We pay so little attention to the feet that carry us all day; no wonder the sensation of actually tending to them is so intense.
“Look how nice this is!” one woman exclaims as she and her friends lower their voices and silence their cell phones. Within one minute, they have downshifted. A therapist leads me to an outdoor hale, or hut, with a thatched roof, bamboo swing and easy reading arranged on tables. Ti plants, palms and hala trees answer the wind. Then I’m guided along a grassy path around strategically placed lava rock piles to a faux lava tube tucked away in the corner of what feels like a vast and privileged setting.
Once I accept the fact that a man I have never met before is cradling me in his arms with one hand dangerously close to my derriere, I begin to relax. If you’ve never moved through water without using your own muscles, it’s like a soft breeze brushing your skin, only more palpable. Every part of me starts to tingle. Hands and fingers curl into their own interpretation of a fetal position, unable to move without significant concentration. Chimes echo through the pool from underwater speakers, completing the surreal atmosphere.
The total relaxation doesn’t begin to wear off until long after Charlie places me up against the wall, my signal that we’re done. He steps away and says nothing. He knows I can’t respond. After exiting the pool, it takes a few seconds before I feel confident enough to walk. Like an infant fresh from the womb, expected to leave the hospital on her own two legs.
Despite the salt water, I feel no residue. An active filtration system keeps it clean. Nonetheless, I shower in one of the spacious outdoor stalls, stocked with Mauna Lani’s own line of ginger shampoo, conditioner and gel. I’m clean and ready for Carole, my next therapist, to lead me toward another outdoor hale. A cement bath sits behind it, hidden amid palm trees, enveloped in privacy and ready for couples who want to soak in a warm bubble bath before enjoying a simultaneous massage in the isolated hut.
She says a prayer in Hawaiian for my well-being and the lomilomi massage. Stretching my limbs and rubbing my skin with citrus oil, she transports me almost immediately. As I glance occasionally (when one eye happens to open) at the orchid positioned below the massage table, I say a prayer of my own: Please let the next 80 minutes pass slowly.
I ask Carole why she does this for a living. Her answer is eloquent. I vow to remember her words precisely. Ten minutes later, I excuse myself from such demanding journalism and recall only the message: “I remind people of who they are, bring them back to center”, she says. I sink back into a world surrounded by my own musings and people (I fantasize) who care only about me, and I’m certain I understand what she means. Somehow I feel forgiven. Even loved. My flaws are meaningless to Carole, and her only mission until the timer buzzes is to make me feel good. Near the end, I fancy myself a rather competent mother, wife, worker, house cleaner, gardener, athlete, friend. Deep probing will undo these thoughts. So I float and relish them while my brain rests in low gear.
There is truth to this. Maybe we go to the spa not to probe, but to escape. To let go. By treating ourselves, we forgive ourselves, make ourselves feel worthy of intimate touch, soft encouragement, scents of orchids, citrus and plumeria and contentment at the hands of people we’ve never met. Good for our health? Yes, and it starts with feeling better about ourselves. Even if it’s only temporary.