Warning: this blog post may inspire fits of jealous rage.
Are you ready for this? My husband bought me a hot stone massage at Urban Oasis. I've had massages before (love them!), but they've always been of the classic Swedish variety. And usually they are 30 minutes long with my clothes on and a co-worker lying 5 feet away. (Yes, Ogilvy brings a massage therapist into the office and subsidizes the cost, thereby buying my eternal loyalty.)
So this was new experience for me. First of all, because I had to tote along my trusted breast pump. The reception staff was super accommodating, though. They assured me that plenty of other moms have needed to pump on site and they led me to an empty massage room to get the milking out of the way.
If you've never had a hot stone massage, it involves being greased up with oil and then stroked with blazing hot (okay, really really warm) volcanic stones. I freaked out a little at the very beginning, thinking there was no way I could endure an hour plus of intense heat, but I quickly adjusted to the hot rocks and within minutes I was loving it. I felt like my flesh was melting into the table. In a good way. By the time my massage was over I wasn't sure I'd be able to stand up, I was that relaxed. My limbs felt like pudding. Warm, chocolaty pudding that would surely puddle onto the floor of the post-massage rainshower and swirl down the drain.
I lingered in that shower, knowing that no one was standing outside the door, impatiently awaiting my emergence from the steam and demanding cereal, boob or the boob tube. Then, after settling up with the receptionist, I walked out in their spa sandals. I turned around, put on my boots and called Josh to thank him and let him know I was heading for the subway.
But my sweetheart didn't want the CTA to sap away all my bliss. He was on his way to fetch me. What a guy!
