“The State shall strive to promote those circumstances that will enable the successful pursuit of Gross National Happiness.” So reads the Kingdom of Buhtan’s ninth article of their Constitution. Sounds pretty great.
Sounds like the sign that should be hanging on the door to my spa, right here in civilized Canada.
Sadly, there is no such sign, and the idea of happiness is a very selfish one inside our once-upon-a-time sacred-spa-space.
Today I made a visit to my spa. You know, that sacred space of femininity don’t you my juicy little plums? A sanctuary of women getting buffed, plucked, polished, wrapped, primped and waxed.
The spa used to be a sacred place of released sighs, silence, and minimal eye contact. It was once the modern day equivalent to the ancient sanctuary of the fabled ‘Red Tent’. Except no talking, just a few quiet whispers between BFF’s.
Alas, like most sanctuaries the spa is no longer sacred, silent or civilized.
Tonight, my visit was longer than usual. Anything over and above my routine waxing and bi-monthly pedicures is considered spa-indulgence. I’ve been in a funk, and with no one but myself to consult on such delicate matters as my own mental and emotional health, I did what we all must do; I took myself for some pampering and much-needed TLC.
My quiet time was contaminated by women who are ignorant of social grace, or just grace in general. To you my dear readers, I give my open letter to the spa Princesses.
I can only imagine how difficult it was to squeeze yourself out of your five-million dollar home and drive yourself (gasp) to have your shellac filled and your stubby toes polished. My heart goes out to you. Truly it does.
Do you realize how ridiculous you look with your oversized, designer bag filled with what appears to be very official looking ‘work’ documents sitting on your lap, as you simultaneously juggle your blinged-out cell phone in your chemical-coated talons?
That wouldn’t be so bad, if the rest of us could simply divert our eyes or even focus on the chick flick that’s playing.
But we can’t do that because you’ve got your lips, which look disturbingly like the arse-end of a baboon in heat, buzzing a thousand miles a minute at a volume Beethoven could have heard above his 5th-freaking-Symphony!
This is a spa, not a public phone booth. You are an adult, not a pre-teen at a pajama party. Stop acting like one.
Oh, and just so you know, the women who work in the spa are people too. The rest of us don’t really give a rat’s patooty if you like your decrepit looking toenails, “Not that short.”
That you have to cover your phone and yell at the woman who is crouched at your feet, less than a metre from your face, is an indicator that you should really pull your rude and demanding head out of your tiara-lined (and likely bleached) bumhole.
Clearly money is no object, and from the look of the rock on your ring finger, hubby could afford to send staff in to help you out. But I suppose that wouldn’t give him any ‘me’ time. That, or your ‘rock’ is actually a little stone you picked up at the flea market along with your spray-on tan and hair dye.
Forgive me sweetpea, but maybe I’ve got you all wrong.
You’re not the cultured sophisticate you want us to believe. You’re just like us aren’t you?
Do everyone, including yourself a favour. Leave the phone and the warrior-princess bravado in your ginormous knock-off handbag. Lean back, exhale, and relax. We’re all in this together darling. No one here will let your secret out of the bag.
With much love,
Your similarly stressed out sister. XO
Please share this with your similarly fabulous gal-pals. Mwah!