Upkeep

I'm a girl who believes in maintenance. My mother was someone who believed in looking polished and pulled together; good grooming was an absolute essential. To that end, I do have a habit of keeping my hands and hooves well shod and polished. I do believe in keeping my hair shiny, my hair color fresh and my dark hair roots at bay. I do believe in the merits of waxing. And I have to hand it to my mother--I do feel better when I'm freshly manicured, coiffed and accessorized. It's a small price to pay.

Lately my neck, back and shoulders have ached with a dull pain that I can easily attribute to stress. My complexion looks dull. How fortunate that I have a three day weekend; afforded with an extra day at my disposal, I can go the extra maintenance mile.

I had a gift certificate for the spa at Sak's Fifth Avenue that I was given six months ago. I retrieved it from the pile of papers in the office, blew the dust off it and called them. Were they open on Labor Day? Yes? Schedule me, baby. I need a day of uber-maintenance.

I first wanted to schedule a facial. "What kind?" the receptionist inquired. There were 20 different options. I settled for a custom facial based on my skin needs. Then I scheduled a massage. "What kind?" she asked again. After reviewing the many options, I settled for a neck, back and shoulder massage. Jeez, that was a lot of work.

I arrived on the East Side at 10:30 am, 30 minutes early for my appointment. I've never been in Sak's in Manhattan. It's a wonderful store to stroll in order to browse for fall fashion but could I actually shop there? Somehow I can't bring myself to pay $1600 for a pair of shoes. The floorplan is exquisite and all key designers are tastefully represented but the prices remind me that I am as squarely middle class and bourgeois as I always thought I was. Case in point--I saw a fabulous ruffled vest that I couldn't help but examine closer. There was not much to it in terms of fabric, but it was very pretty and seemed well tailored. Gingerly I fingered the price tag; it was only $525. Sweet Jesus.

After a stop at the Jo Malone counter to stock up on my favorite scent, I made my way down to the spa.

Upon arrival I was ordered to strip down, don a robe and report to a small dark room. The massage therapist, Aida, was a charming 50-something Puerta Rican woman with luminous skin and a spark in her eyes. She patted her table and ordered me to climb upon it and place my face in a towel covered head ring which was lightly scented with lavender. It felt good just to lay there. Within minutes, Aida was kneading my back with purpose. I was lubed and pounded and reduced to a totally relaxed piece of comfortable flesh. All the while, we discussed the upcoming election and I learned Aida's whole life story: a childhood in Brooklyn, never married, many lovers including a man who was the love of her life and who impregnated her with her only child . He then he left her. This child was born with severe cerebral palsy and lived only to be 13 yet she decided to raise the child alone alone. I would have been in tears over her story (which, mind you, I encouraged--I kept asking questions and I tried to draw her out) but I was so damned relaxed as she worked over my tired old shoulders. When she was done, I felt like a million bucks.

I was then dispatched to a completely different person, a Russian woman with exquisite facial features named Albina. Albina wasn't warm and effusive like Aida. She was precise and methodical. As is my wont, I tried to engage her in conversation. I learned that she had spent decades as an aesthetician at the famed Georgette Klinger spa. In case you don't know it, Georgette Klinger was a gold standard in skin care for years; their renown salon on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan closed recently which sent packs of talented aestheticians like Albina scattering to other facilities: Elizabeth Arden, Bliss Spa and the like.

Albina didn't like small talk so I simply shut up and let her work over my face. She scoured and scrubbed and peeled and massaged. It was incredibly pleasant to feel my skin breath so I let her have at it. When she was done, I thanked her and returned to the dressing room to change back into my street clothes. Suddenly I saw my face in a mirror and I have to hand it to her--she'd taken a few years off my face. At least for today.

When I went to settle up the tally, I well exceeded the gift certificate bounty. With generous tips, I spent nearly as much as I would have spent if I had purchased that lovely ruffled vest that I had admired hours earlier. Still, I felt so much more renewed walking out into the early afternoon on Fifth Avenue then that vest would have made me feel wearing it a dozen times.

My mother would have well approved.