Milfification: On Assignment, Part I

Guess where I spent Thursday, my Peeps?

spa lounge

That’s right. Spa Day. Glorious, all day Spa Day. At a real spa, even. Why weren’t you there? We should totally go together next time.

ladie's lounge

I decided to smuggle a camera in and photo-document. That’s how much I love you. This is a photo I took of the ladies changing locker. It was the first and only one I got off before a large, mono-browed, angry, staff woman decided to wrestle me to the ground for taking pictures.

What? Oh yeah, I guess the other naked patrons didn’t care too much for me whipping out a recording device and muttering about how this was all going to be terrific blog fodder for the internet.

But before I got nailed to the floor by 250 pounds of sinew and muscle named Helga, I snapped that lovely lady’s lounge shot. Later, I changed into my swimsuit right by that window, in the bask of the afternoon sun… Realizing a moment too late that the window looks directly onto the spa’s main walking path . Fwoops. Ironically? Someone may have taken a picture of me changing. I remember boyish giggles and a pop flash as I was pulling up my knickers. Damn.

I won’t bore you with any details about the 90 minute Hatha Yoga class we took (except I totally ruined it for Middle by whispering after every few poses that this was really a marital sex ed class. I don’t think she’ll do downward dog again.) or the hour long facials we got (and wow – did I learn about product! Anyone else know there is a little metal zit extractor you can buy for like twenty bucks and it removes blackheads? As soon as I get a hold of one, I am locking myself up in a steamy bathroom like it is two weeks before junior prom. Except hold the tidal wave bangs and blue eyeliner and just give me an extra serving of pore cleaning.) (Also? I think I went a little bi for the chick who rubbed my feet.)

Later, we emerged, robed, flip-flopped and looking like freshly plucked chickens to find that our private mineral spring hot tub was waiting for us. Hot springs nestled into the hills, people. Smelling like sulfur and firecrackers.


Our private tub was called:

shelter sign

But upon smelling it and seeing it, we decided it could only be called “Satan’s Butthole”.

Satan's Butthole

So we sat in Satan’s Butthole and had several conversations between sisters that ended in one of us holding her ears and whispering, “Stop. Rewind. Delete.” Over and over again to erase the magnitude of the overshare by the other. So pretty much like every time I see my sisters. Except this time included some weird hot springs gas high. They don’t mention that in the brochure, but I’m pretty sure that’s why they successfully charge people to sit in hot farty water.

Part Two next time, in which I stumble around a meditation garden, high on sulfur fumes, dehydrated and malnourished. Cliff notes? I steal a rock, cry in a maze, and find divine messages scrawled in graffiti. Then I make it back in time to be slightly late for dinner.