Champagne anyone?

Just off the 15 freeway, between Orange County and the Wine Region of Temecula Valley lies a little piece of heaven. Nestled in the foothills of southern Corona is the Glen Ivy Hot Springs and Spa (not to be confused with Glen Eden, the nudist colony one exit further. While I have not actually experienced Glen Eden, I have taken a peek through the fence as I drove by. don't judge! You know you would too). Today Glen Ivy is a high-end spa catering to the many OC transplants, with the increased fees to prove it.

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While I don't partake very often, I still try to go once in a while to sit in the warm mineral baths, play in the mud pit, and relax in the underground grotto.
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Last time I went to the hot springs, I decide to splurge. The brochure promised a "relaxing journey" of exfoliation and moisture restoration followed by a Swedish massage. At that pont in my life, no price was too high for a stress relieving massage.
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Unfortunately, my tension only increased as I entered the The Ivy Massage Building. Despite the elegant decor highlighted with freshly cut flowers, gurgling water fountains, and the minty-fresh scent of lavender and rosemary in the air (all obviously designed to inspire relaxation) , I was overcome with tension. The usual bout of insecurities and concern began to fill my brain. "What if my massage therapist is a man? Even worse, what if my therapist is a really skinny woman? Do you think she has ever seen thighs like mine? No. Probably not." Maybe I should have been more specific when I made my appointment. Could I have asked for a "fat one"? No. Probably not. Dang!

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I decided that depending on how skinny she was, I'd have to tip more. I tip on an inverse sliding scale of fatness. The fatter I am, the more I tip. The skinnier they are, the more I tip. Unfortunately when my therapist finally called my name to come back, I was so busy trying to calculate the immeasurable amount of possible tipping quantities, I didn't even pay attention to what she looked like. I just remember walking into my little room and being told that she'd be back after I was on the massage table and under the sheet. Double dang!

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So there I was, face down with no way to see the person that was delivering my "relaxing journey of exfoliation and moisture restoration". After a few minutes I was able to get a peek at her feet and ankles. She appeared to be a size nine shoe, with less than normal ankle thickness. Things were not looking good. I'd probably have to tip her more than expected.

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Somewhere during the treatment I resolved to give her a nice big tip and then just try to enjoy my massage. Fortunately there was no snickering, not even a little. I managed to relax for about ten whole minutes! As the treatment time came to an end, she invited me to spend some time in the "relaxation room" at the end of the hall and said there would be complimentary hot herbal tea and crisp fresh fruit to enjoy.

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I wrapped my soft fuzzy robe around myself and shuffled on down to the relaxation room. I had no idea that the woman sitting across from me would soon be the answer to all of my tension. She appeared comfortable in her swimsuit, drinking hot tea. She smiled at me as I sat there sizing her up. I estimated that she had more than 50 lbs on me! This was great news! Apparently the massage therapists see beefcakes all the time. But she seemed a little more comfortable with herself than I did. So I decided to make mention of this. "You look like you are quite relaxed!" I said. "Well" she responded, "After that first bottle of champagne, I didn't care what other people though of me in my swimsuit. By the second, I wouldn't care if the massage table crushed under my weight! I'm havin' a great time!"

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Turns out she was totally right! I'm now a two-bottle-of-champagne spa girl too.