Fifteen years.

For fifteen years I’ve been waiting, wishing and wondering–along with every other housewife in America–about what it would be like to forget my troubles and spend one single, entire day at a full-service luxury spa.  Sure, I’ve had a mani and pedi here and there, and even the occasional massage for my birthday every few years.  But I’ve yet to experience the extensive royal treatment of a Truly Pampered Woman:  french manicure, spa pedicure, hair washed and deeply conditioned in thick coconut-smelling goo then cut and coiffed to Aniston-ian perfection, swedish massage, seaweed wrap, deep tissue facial–the works.  And though such a day has always loomed large in my mind as the ultimate fulfillment of a feminine fantasy (sorry, hub), I also know that a Full Day at the Spa is terrifically expensive and terrifically indulgent and reserved for the one-percenters whose greed and decadence keep everyone else from eating.  So, for the last fifteen years, I have contented myself with the dream of it all, and it’s actually helped me a lot.

On any given weekday, when I find myself in the parking lot at Walmart hauling laundry soap and cheese sticks into the back of my minivan, I can will my mind to a serene, mystical neverland that includes a bubbling foot soak, sweet burning incense, and some seriously overpriced face cream.  With a little concentration, I can transport my arms–the ones lifting a Charmin 36-roll megapack out of the cart–to another world, where they are stretched languidly over my head as I lay on facedown on a padded massage table, hearing only the sound of my own breath and a CD of what, I can only assume, are blue whales making love.   Aahh…this mental exercise has seen me through more than one afternoon at the grocery store, or the car wash, or laminating art projects at my kids’ school.  (Oops–did I say that last one out loud?  I love helping at my kids’ school!  Love it.  What kind of mother do you think I am?)

And so, for the last fifteen years, though I’ve often dreamt about A Ridiculously Expensive Day At The Spa, I’ve never actually experienced one.  And I’ve never resented it.

Until now.

Because guess who, after living in our home for all of three months,  did get a full–and I mean full–day at the poshest spa in town?  Guess who spent seven hours under the tender care of a personal attendant, getting a wash and a rinse and a comb and a cut and a mani and a pedi and–I am not even kidding–a raspberry facial?

Go ahead.  Take a guess.


And guess who gladly paid for it all?


Forget the economic policies of the White House.  What about the redistribution of wealth in this house?