It sounds silly, but: I survived the MWO. Within an hour of being at our desert spa destination, I toured, floated on rafties in that one charming pool, flew on tiptoes to my chaise, applied Burt’s Bees sunblock to my nose, pulled the first 50 pages of my ms from my bag (yes, I actually brought it with me with huge intentions) and sat on a yellow jacket.
I have stepped on many a small bee when beachwalking the wet sand barefoot. No big deal. Pull out the stinger while apologizing to bee, apply sand for a few minutes to tiny welt, keep walking. T-Rex Yellow jackets? It felt like a foot long needle had been rammed into my spa-adventuring lily-white a**. Still, after the initial F***ING A** O-RAMA!, I felt fine. Just another bee sting, I thought, heading to the snack bar in search of fruit. No problem, I thought. Tra la la…By the time it was my turn for the cashier, I thought I was going to die—there—at the desert spa—after having barely arrived—dead—in front of queued strangers. Somehow I paid without my throbbing a** hitting the pavement and delicately made my way to the changing rooms/showers/roman baths area, where I asked for bee sting help from the front desk personnel, who refused to make eye contact with me when I told them where the sting was located.
Since I couldn’t handle the spa’s in-house “Bee Medic” examining my a**, which by now felt as if I was growing yellow jackets in it, I grabbed the bee-sting-swabs the personnel thrust at me and made for the showers, rain-storming myself in freezing water for a bit, afterwards finding a rattan chair waaaay back in the lounge-ish area, where I spent the next 90 minutes battling light-headedness and a specific throbbing the likes of which I’ve never known as I gulped 20 glasses of free spa-ice-water. My brain restlessly visited each side of my skull, first right, just for a second, then scooching left, then back again, like Pong. Just like Pong. Eventually my head dropped between my legs and stuck. This was a good thing.
I have come to the conclusion that sting or no sting, spas and I don’t mix. The intense bake outdoors, the boisterous, jolly crowds, the lack of quiet and shade in 105 (felt like 200) degrees, $15 salads, massage rooms with remarkably thin walls for $85/hr—no, I did not faint from the yellow jacket’s stinger in my a**, but that doesn’t mean I’m not: A Spa Wimp.
Did my 50 pages and I ever connect? For about 10 minutes the following morning, as I sat alone breathing in the early a.m. heat and my coffee’s pleasant aroma. Revelation number 2: I revise/write just fine—if not better—at home.
!!!CODA: Spending a weekend with 8 mothers? The exchange of information, giggles and guffaws, confessions, updates and amount of chocolate and wine and champagne consumed with a little filet mignon and a lot of sushi thrown in (I’m talking Crazy Monkey Roll sushi)? You can’t put a price on that. I’m a lucky Mama.
PS. This is my 100th pbwrites post. Hurrah and balloons! Or—zzzzzz (a much different sound than bzzzzz)