PARENT

Mommy’s Day Off

I awoke and looked out of my window at a rainy, cold and miserable Vancouver morning.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, was going to dampen my spirits. Today was special. This was my day, Linda’s day out!

A stay-at-home mom, I had worked six long years with virtually no break from the children. My husband had offered me some respite from time to time when he sensed I really needed it, but my overactive maternal instincts just tightened my grip on the raising of my kids. A self-confessed control freak, I felt a need to be with them every second of every day. My stress snowballed and I was desperately needed some time away.

My husband, sensing a perspective check was in order, gave me that verbal kick in the butt I needed to snap out of it. He reassured me that the kids would still eat, sleep, breathe and use the washroom were I to be absent. He had been given a gift voucher for a free 60-minute massage at a spa an hour away in Whistler and he offered it to me. This I definitely couldn’t refuse!

Next morning, I burst out of my apartment, like an escapee outrunning the bloodhounds. I boarded the bus to Whistler with a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. The vehicle was half empty; I exploited this to the full by selecting two empty seats and stretching my tired body across them. The pelting rain mutated into driving snow on the final approach to my destination. The heater on the bus lulled my body into a sense of false security. The reality check came when I alighted and the freeze of the outside air hit me like a slap in the face. It was a shocking awakening of the worst kind, especially when I realized I was wearing too thin a winter coat, one that emphatically was not warm enough. An arctic wind sliced through me and chilled me to the spine. The buffeting snow quickly impaired my vision.

Soup, hot steaming soup was all I craved! I was hungry, I was cold and soup became my ultimate obsession. You would think that satisfying such an overwhelming want in an area that has over 300 restaurants would be easy. Wrong! I walked for an hour and passed many establishments that beckoned the serious diner to a four-course meal, but no such inducement for the soup-only sipper. What an unreasonable request on an arctic day, I thought sarcastically.

Defeated I flopped into a wobbly chair in a bar whose loudness threatened not only my ear drums, but any peace I might have expected away from my noisy and boisterous children. “Soup please!” I rasped to the waitress who finally acknowledged my presence. “Sorry, we are out of soup today” she replied, “but there is a place around the corner that serves an excellent bowl”.

Obeying her directions, I stumbled into the tiniest deli I have ever seen. Gratefully, I sat down. What followed was my very own orgy of hot soup sipping. It had to be the best bowl I had ever tasted, either because it was particularly good or because I had to work so hard for it. Either way, I didn’t care.

The time for my massage approached. Suitably fortified, strengthened and restored, I reluctantly left the warm coziness of the deli and braced myself to face the blasting cold of what was now a full-blown blizzard. I cursed my unsuitable attire as my feet were wet right through and snow was sliding down my neck.

I searched for the spa. After 20 minutes of fruitless walking, I was about to give up when it appeared in the distance, a veritable beacon in a storm. I hastened towards it. My frozen hands groped for the entrance door which I unceremoniously butted open.

I stepped into another world. Inside was a lobby with a décor reminiscent of an Italian Villa. The air was warm and balmy and a fragrant mixture of essential oils assailed my senses. The heady aroma infused itself into my lungs and an instant calm embraced me. The receptionist smiled beatifically. She directed me into the spa’s sanctuary, where the sight and sound of a flowing waterfall relaxed my nerves and bladder simultaneously. I made my way to a washroom, so beautiful inside that I was reluctant to leave. In fact, if I could just have stayed there for the afternoon drinking the herbal tea offered me, I would have considered my spa experience complete.

Feeling like Lady Muck, I sank into a plush couch, admiring the rich brocade and soaking up the opulence that surrounded me. The perfumed air by now had an intoxicating effect. I sipped my soothing herbal tea, feeling very soporific.

My massage therapist was a sweet, short Italian man called Luciano. He ushered me into a cathedral-like massage room. A huge illuminated stained glass window presided over the massage table, imparting a spiritual hush to the area. All my feelings of modesty evaporated when I realized I probably would have to wait another six years before enjoying the repeat opportunity of a 60 minute massage. I disrobed and scuttled under the pristine white, Egyptian cotton sheets and waited for my Massage Magician to arrive.

Luciano pronounced my muscles to be as tight as a drum. “I am going to make your spine as loose and as clickety-clack as Venetian blinds”, he cooed in a gooey caramel voice. My body submitted to his strong hands. Like play dough, he molded, rolled and pounded the stress out of my uncooperative muscles and joints. I could almost hear the sweet strumming of angel harps, until I realized it was the piped music that set the mood of the moment.

I surrendered myself to the experience with complete abandon, utterly unselfconscious of the almost primal grunts and groans that seemed to be emanating from me. Sheer bliss overcame the pain, my body humming and buzzing with the release of tension. I felt high from the release of endorphins.

Reluctantly, I emerged from the spa. Now impervious to the pervading cold I hopped onto a bus home, feeling like someone reborn.

I arrived back at my apartment beaming from ear to ear, my family hardly recognizing this relaxed person I had become.

It’s amazing what a difference a day makes. A day out, that is!