Toxic release - an excerpt from 'Spavalous'

The year 2006 brought much hope and promise of good things to come for me as a writer. In an attempt to ward off depression from my painful breakup with Andrew, I enrolled in the Maui Writers’ Conference, an intention for years that I hadn’t followed through with, until now.

Memoir in hand, I boarded the plane, solo, for a twelve-hour plane ride. This type of trip is something you’ve got to either embrace or avoid in life; I’m the type of person who can sit at a restaurant and dine alone, enjoying my own company with immense pleasure. I was fine on this trip, and as a result of much creative input at the conference, this book came to be.

Aside from the process of publishing, what I learned while vacationing solo in one of the most romantic spots on earth is that you’ve got to know when to exit. When the conference was over, I stayed a few extra days, only to be tortured by the honeymooning couples that seemed oblivious to the fact that making whoopee in the pool was offensive to those of us who wanted to actually wade.

In an attempt to explore the spas of Maui, and to get away from honeymooners, I booked myself an Awapuhi Body Therapy treatment at the neighboring five-star Grand Wailea’s Spa Grande.

The brochure read, “Hawaiian sea salts, ginger root, lemongrass, Hawaiian green papaya, honey and a mix of rich oils, including macadamia nut and coconut oils, exfoliate and detoxify, reduce water retention and deeply moisturize.”

I was instructed to arrive at the spa one hour earlier than my scheduled treatment time so that I could enjoy some time in the Terme baths. When I arrived at the spa's lobby, two women with oval name badges, reminiscent of Disney World badges, welcomed me to the spa. Shari, the esthetician in charge of my service, could have easily passed as a Mouseketeer. Her wide-eyed gaze and full-toothed smile greeted me as if she’d been waiting to service me since the day I was born.

She ushered me into the locker room and handed me a key to store my belongings before announcing: “This is an all-nude area.”

Sheepishly, I followed her on a tour she offers on the half hour. First stop was the Roman Jacuzzi Tub, where you dip into a temperature of 102 degrees before climbing into the next tub over, a cold plunge pool. No naked bodies seen yet.

I try to stay collected in my composure, as if nakedness in public is acceptable to me.

Next room: the five baths. Now I see naked women in all shapes and sizes — mostly plus-sized. Two sumo wrestler types are crouched in a basin where a stream of a waterfall is hitting the back of their necks. I try not to look, but my peripheral vision and curiosity betray me at every turn.

Now it’s my turn, and when the perky Shari says she’ll come get me in an hour, I realize she’ll see me completely naked.

Deal, I tell myself. Even with my fifteen excess pounds, I feel like I shouldn’t worry about my appearance. Besides, I know nobody here across the nation in Hawaii, so I begin with a towel wrapped around me and decide to approach the Roman Jacuzzi Tub. My decision is based by process of deduction: nobody is in this area. I step in and quickly realize I’m in a knee-deep pool, which reminds me of a time when my crazy Aunt Dottie took me on a road trip to visit my cousin Wilma in Missouri.

Dottie, her husband Joe and my Nana rode together, stopping at hotels that, by my request, had pools. When Dottie told me to go ahead of her and enjoy the pool, I headed out the door in excitement.

“Wait,” she called to me. “Don’t go in over your ankles.”

I hadn’t known that she was drunk when she said this, and I was trying to be obedient, so I did as she told me, even though I felt like the pool time was a waste of time. Dottie finally came out to join me, and since that time, when I was barely ten years old, she hasn’t stopped telling the story to anyone who will listen, laughing at my expense each time.

Distracted by my flashback, I decide, after one minute of contemplation, that I’m ready to take the plunge into the cold pool. I dip one leg into the icy 65-degree water and pull out immediately. I suddenly could have cared less about improving my circulatory system.

I step out, grab my towel and head to my intended visit to the aromatic baths. I am especially interested in the Moor Mud Tub. When I enter the room, I notice almost all tubs are filled with naked women; I pretend to be cool.

Quickly, I slip off my borrowed sandals and towel and climb into the empty aromatherapy tub as my first choice. How does the tub disinfect between customers? As my breasts bob the surface, I tell myself to relax and enjoy the experience. Aromas of essential oils calm me until, suddenly, a naked woman walks out of the mandatory interim Vichy shower and lets out a stink bomb, overpowering the scents of lavender and rosemary for the next two minutes.

The time arrives and my exit is awkward, but I grab my towel, not wanting to step out and expose my most private area, one that I hadn’t even viewed myself. I grab my towel in a nonchalant manner and head to the shower in what will soon be a ritual that will leave me donning a heavily soaked towel as my cover. After an aggressive blast from the shower, I head for the mud bath, but alas, a size twenty-four sits in the space, filling nearly every square inch of tub.

I head to the Pacific sea salt bath to help stimulate my metabolism. The green papaya moisturizes my skin, but the mud bath is what I really want. Yet, when I finally climb into the bath, it’s not really muddy, but a cool, refreshing change from the 100-degree cesspools.

Next is the mineral bath. Now I’m losing patience and do not sit in the tub for more than a minute.

The waterfall beckons, and I head in the direction of the contraption that looks similar to a men’s room urinal. I convince myself that it’s not as awkward as it looks, especially in the earlier view I caught of the sumo women. It is. I’m done here.

With my wrapped five-hundred-pound wet towel covering my private parts, I pinch the wrap to keep it closed and frantically look for Shari, ten minutes shy of my scheduled treatment. She looks surprised when I ask for a dry towel, but hands me one, regardless.

Past the Roman tub room, we head to a small treatment room with a wall of green glass blocks that add sunlight, but include privacy. Normally, a spa therapist would, at this point, instruct me, before exiting, to remove my robe, or in this case, towel, and hop on to the massage table and cover myself. Not so in the body-friendly atmosphere of the Grande Spa.

Shari tells me to drop the towel and lie on the table, face down. I obey.

The only coverage I receive is the hand cloth she uses to conceal my butt crack. Loofah sponge in hand, she begins to slough my entire backside. In the midst of my exfoliation, she asks me if I’ve shaved today, as it would hurt if I had. Her timing is lacking, but I reply that I have merely spot shaved.

My answer offers her the green light to continue with the treatment, and I am then covered with heavy strokes of salts. I am instructed to sit up. My body is caked with the salt scrub. She hands me a bowl with the remaining scrub.

“Take some and rub it on your breasts,” she instructs. I obey.

Finally, I am donning a sheet, but I am standing, and this sheet I am wearing was given to me only to secure the salts. Underneath the cover, my arms secure it at my belly button as I trail Shari to the sauna. A towel and pillow are waiting for me in the too hot, 100-degrees room. Shari turns down the thermostat, instructs me to lie down, and then covers my eyes with cucumbers and a cold, water-soaked face cloth. Then, she places a cloth on my neck and one on each foot. It feels soothing, refreshing and nurturing at the same time.

“I’ll come back in five minutes and replace the cloths,” she announces.

When she returns promptly five minutes later, we scamper back to the treatment room where she prepares her dry oil and I wash the salt off my body using the wall shower in front of the massage table. The hand tool works well to remove the stubborn grit.

A towel dry and I am back on the table as Shari slathers oil on every square inch of my body. While she works wonders on my sun worn body, she begins to share her tale of how she ended up on the island. She says she moved from Chicago three years earlier, but found herself too lonely to stay. She had planned to head out to San Francisco until she met “the one.” As I listened with interest, I found myself filling with hope for my own lonely self. And then I ask the question that would change my thought process entirely.

“How long have you been seeing him,” I ask.

“One month,” she replies.

Thoughts of desperation fill my mind.