Hire
Writers
Editors
Home Tour About Read What's New Help Forums Join
My Account Login
Shop
Save
Support
E
Book
Store
Learn
About
Jesus
  



The HOME for Christian writers! The Home for Christian Writers!
The Official Writing Challenge

BACK TO
CHALLENGE
MAIN

INSTRUCTIONS

how it works
submission rules
guidelines for
choosing a level

ENTRIES

submit your entry
read current entries
read past entries
challenge winners



Our Daily Devotional HERE
Place it on your site or
receive it daily by email.





TRUST JESUS TODAY

TRY THE TEST



Share
how it works   Submit

Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 – Advanced)
Topic: Staff (01/31/13)

TITLE: Spa Spam
By Lori Dixon
02/06/13


 LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
 SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
 ADD TO MY FAVORITES

I went to the spa the other day. The last time I went to a spa was to get a pedicure—having not seen my feet in nine months.

My youngest is now sixteen-years-old.

I am a hard-working middle-class mother who spends her disposable income on frivolous things like heat and toilet paper.

This mid-week pleasure was due to a $90 gift card from a group of well-meaning upper-class citizens who, I guess, wanted to spoil me. (Or perhaps they just got a glimpse of the rain forest growth on my chin and decided—EcoEarth or not—it was time for some clear-cutting).

Regardless of the motivation, I made an appointment to get my first facial—at forty-seven-years-old.

As it turned out, the days leading up to the great event were crazy. My oldest left for her last semester of college (she was going out of country; I was going out of my mind) and I had numerous publishing deadlines to make as well. Having dropped the deserter—I mean, student off at the airport, I drove directly to my ‘day of pampering’.

A young, upbeat attendant, whose body parts were even perkier than her demeanor, greeted me. Looking around, I realized that I had underwear older than most of the staff.

She led me up the spiral staircase to the women’s lounge area. Once inside the teak-encased changing rooms, she handed me a robe and flip-flops.

That’s when I realized what I had done.

Oh, the horror! Do I turn and run? Here I stood in the fanciest, most uppity place I had ever been in . . . surrounded by women who ‘fit in’ . . . and I hadn’t shaved anything in . . . seasons.


Standing there covered up in my jeans, runners and jacket, I already felt naked around all the la-de-da ladies. Ask me to strip down into a robe with legs that had not seen the sun or a razor since summer? I think not.

But, alas, there are cancellation rules that must be adhered to, and being Scottish in decent, I was not going to tolerate being charged fifty bucks.

Clearly that is the price of my pride.

So, I went ahead and exposed my fuzzy legs while I enjoyed the steam, rain-shower, snacks and lemon water circuit several times. When they finally called my name for the classic facial, I had sweat off at least five pounds of water weight.

Ushered into a dimly lit room of tranquility, I slipped off my robe and hid my Neanderthal legs under the pre-warmed sheets. The technician entered and took her spot at the top of the bed, her warm hands wiping my face while she examined my neglected pores.

And then . . . it started.

For the next hour, she exfoliated and massaged, her hands moving in almost nonstop, mesmerizing motions. Unfortunately, her lips flapped at an even faster tempo in an unending crummy commercial.

Gifted, healing touches were defiled with sixty-minutes of constant product flogging. I thought about asking her what gave her the impression that I could afford a seventy-dollar cleanser. Was it my manicured hands? Oh wait, not one of my nails matched in length and I still had melted chocolate underneath a few of them. My sculpted body? No, the only figures I’d been worried about were the ones in my bank account.

She was on auto-pilot and doing what she had been hired to do. Up-sell.

McDonalds, Starbucks, even Staples staff ask if you need anything else. Why would I think a spa would be different?

Because I was tired, weary, and had waited over two years to use a gift card on ‘just me’.

Two hours later and thirty-five dollars over my gift card limit, I left with a small pouch of samples and completely stressed out.

Lesson learned. I’m not a woman who does spa days, nor do I think I really want to be. I guess I'll just continue to pamper myself with superfluous things like . . . heat and toilet paper.


The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.
Accept Jesus as Your Lord and Savior Right Now - CLICK HERE
JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.


This article has been read 121 times
Member Comments
Member Date
Shann Hall-LochmannVanBennekom 02/08/13
I totally loved this. Your sardonic sense of humor has impeccable timing. I found myself giggling throughout this delightful read. :-)
John Huckstep02/10/13
Love your sense of humor in this story. I laughed all the way through it. I'll be surprised if this one doesn't place. Great job.
Barbara Lynn Culler02/11/13
Loved this-so Erma Bombeck! I thought I knew who wrote it, but now not so sure. Good job!
Jan Ackerson 02/12/13
Love your voice; this was very entertaining.

Watch your use of hyphens. There were several hyphenated phrases here, and some of the hyphens weren't necessary.

You're a master of imagery and wit, and this was by far the most engaging piece I've read today.
CD Swanson 02/13/13
Great job, loved the subtle, yet blatant humor.

Thanks. God bless~
Shann Hall-LochmannVanBennekom 02/14/13
Congratulations on ranking 6th in level three and 25 overall! HAPPY DANCE!!!