This story is part of our 'Funny Spa Stories' series, featuring tales from luxury hotel guests which were sent in for our travel writing competition.
Photo by Paul H Photography.
I must confess, as a bride to-be, I had spent all my time being starry-eyed over the wonderful man I had met only months earlier. I happily allowed my mother to assume the role of Bridezilla. I had the best of intentions of setting a week aside where I would do nothing but beautify and de-stress but somehow that week never materialized. I woke up one morning stricken that the big day had actually arrived.
I rushed to the spa closest to home and begged to be slotted in for the bridal spa package. When the therapist asked me when the wedding was, it dawned on me that taking the ‘spa plunge’ just hours before the wedding wasn’t the brightest of ideas. The soothing strains of water trickling down the Balinese fountain lulled me into lying to her. It was weeks yet to the event, I announced.
I was led to the dimly lit therapy room and told to take my clothes off. Being a spa virgin, I stood immobilized in the changing room mentally debating if I should leave my undergarments on. I didn’t know anything about disposable panties then, so, reluctantly I conceded only the sarong would separate me from the therapist. Under the rhythmic caresses of her hands, my inhibitions slowly wore off right until she told me that she had to take me outside to the garden. She convinced me that I should lie in a secluded part of the garden to enable the lulur scrub she had slathered all over my body to dry off.
Not wanting to be a wet blanket, I did as I was told, all the while mindful that I was actually lying exposed in what simply was an annex off the reception area. Then as luck would have it, a group of people turned up at the spa at that precise moment. They just had to be shown the garden and my immodest self as part of their tour. Mortified doesn’t even do justice to how I felt then.
Even though I wanted nothing more than to succumb to the world infused with the divine aroma of exotic spices, my massage began and I soon discovered the masseuse’s habit of letting out a loud belch at the end of each sweeping stroke of my body. It happened to the best of masseuses, she justified. The trapped wind from her client’s body would transfer to hers and she would have to release it one way or another. Most charming, I thought.
As I towelled off the memories of my first day at the spa in the bathroom, I noticed that tiny red bumps had erupted all over my hands, arms and legs. I had developed a reaction to the spa products. It was my penance for leaving things until the eleventh hour. I had to graciously face my new husband and guests as a bride with a breakout of rash on her body.