Queen for a Day

I decided to take advantage of my free time today and cashed in a gift card to a local day spa. The treatment I scheduled turned into a surreal journey to the Egyptian afterlife.

This was not my intent.

The Chocolate Body Wrap description on the spa's website was tantalizing - "organic chocolate truffle masque has more anti-oxidants than green tea, is super hydrating, and well…smells amazing! An application of sugar plum massage soufflé makes this an unbelievable experience!" As a lover of all things chocolate, I was hooked.

Sadly - as is often the case - sales forgot to talk to marketing and reality fell way short of the promise.

I signed in at the reception desk, changed into the giant spa robe, and was escorted into a darkened, windowless room. There I was told to recline on what looked like an embalming table - and which was about as welcoming.

And so the body wrap began. Instead of a coating of luxuriously warm chocolaty goodness thick enough to apply with spatula as I had imagined, the "chocolate truffle masque" was instead a light application of oil scented with what may have been a drop or two of cocoa butter. Or not.

Under dim lighting, I rested flat out on the table while the esthetitian applied the non-truffly goo. Suddenly, as if floating from above and looking down at my greasy self, I conjured up an image of high priests attending to an Egyptian queen on her way from this life to the next and no matter how hard I tried I could not shake that image. Past-life regression, anyone? I started to giggle.

Eventually, I felt layer after layer of warm towels piling on top of my entire body. Strips of smooth linen and a coating of resin would have been more appropriate for Egyptian royalty, but nubby terrycloth was all I got.

Next - and this is the best part - I was encased in sheets of plastic from my neck down to my toes. Not exactly an earth-friendly product choice but at the time I wasn't in any position to protest because I couldn't move. No longer Nefertiti, I was now a tightly wrapped human burrito. Thankful that my brain had not been removed through my nasal cavity, I was left to poach for a good fifteen minutes within my plastic tortilla. I'm sure some people find this restful. I found it claustrophobic.

Finally, plastic and terrycloth were removed in reverse order, and after some tidying up I was ready to face the world again. As I left the spa, I realized two things. First: Human beings should never be wrapped in plastic. Second: Chocolate should be eaten, not worn. On the way home, I stopped off at See's Candies and treated myself to a couple of dark chocolate butterchews.

Caveat emptor.

Kindergarten

My little neighbor, Kevin, started kindergarten last week. I know this because he told me. This telling is in and of itself quite an accomplishment because for the first six months after he and his family moved in next door, Kevin would run the other way whenever he saw me.

After two months of this disturbing behavior, I told my husband I was developing quite a complex. I found it incredibly disconcerting to know that I instilled fear in that child and tried everything in my arsenal to win him over. Truthfully, my arsenal was limited - a genuine smile, a wave, a friendly tone, a presentable appearance. I even briefly considered bribery, but that seemed somehow wrong. Despite my honest attempts, Kevin would take one look at me, turn tail and run.

I'm not sure what broke the ice about six weeks ago, but now Kevin and I chat companionably through the wire fence that separates our front yards. Mostly we chat about the trash collectors who come on Tuesday and how many trash cans they knock down, and which trash can we roll out to the curb first, and which has the most trash. He always asks me about Greg, who he never calls by name but instead refers to as "the other neighbor." And when Kevin chats with Greg, he never fails to ask about me who he also always refers to as "the other neighbor." It's easier that way, I suppose...we're sort of interchangeable neighborly replicants.

Anyway, I find my new friend to be incredibly bright, and fun and charming. Kevin is small for his age and with his dark-rimmed glasses and pronounced lisp he seems very fragile and sensitive so it's no surprise that when he told me he would soon be off to kindergarten I suddenly felt very protective of him. Although I was outwardly happy and excited at Kevin's news, the internal mom in me went into overdrive. How would he react to all the new people, and routines, and separation from his mom with whom he is very close? I worried about bullies, and playground rejection, and keeping up with the stronger, bigger kids. I had trouble sleeping the night before his first day of school, for crying out loud.

Kevin, meanwhile, chattered happily on about how even though his mom would drive him to school on the first day, he couldn't wait to walk to the bus stop on the corner so he could ride the yellow school bus with all the other kids.

Back in time fifty-five years. I remember my first day of kindergarten at Decima Allen School - a dismal, creaky old stone building complete with tales of real bats in a real belfry. An only child at the time, I remember walking into the classroom holding tightly to my mother's hand and encountering an eye-level forest of grown-up knees and more kids than I had ever seen in one place before. Although somewhat confused by all the activity I also remember feeling fairly confident until I saw Kenny Wright holding onto his mom's legs and screaming bloody murder, begging her not to leave him. "Uh-oh," I thought, scanning the room for an escape route. "He has insider information about this whole kindergarten thing." Eventually Kenny calmed down and the rest of that first day must have been uneventful because I have no memory of it beyond wailing Kenny.

Back in time twenty-five years. My daughter wanted to take the bus on her first day of school so I waited at the corner with the other moms. I remember watching my little girl as she hoisted herself up that first giant step into the bus, one hand on the rail, the other gripping her lunch box, watched as she took a seat next to her friend, watched as she rode away toward her future. Not all school days were as smooth as that first one, but on that day she was fiercely independent and I was - and continue to be - so incredibly proud of her I could burst.

I saw Kevin the other day and asked him about his first day of school. His face lit up, dimples framing his smile, as he told me how much fun it was, and how much he liked taking the bus, and that playing outside was the best part. We talked a bit more about school, then about trash cans. He asked about the other neighbor, and finally we said our goodbyes.

I am happy to report that I slept quite soundly that night.