I love the spa. I usually only make it once a year, but every time I go, I always think “I have to come here more often.”
Today, I decided I want to live there.
The spa is quiet.
People talk softly. Doors close with a whisper. I hear waves crash soothingly around me, with the faint sound of tinkling bells and strumming guitars. No one is making rude bodily function noises with their armpit. Soccer balls do not crash against walls. There are no harsh voices.
The spa is clean.
Nothing crunches under my feet. Magazines are carefully fanned on a shelf, the pages, intact. Sparkly glasses are stacked neatly by the water. Robes are folded and tied with a ribbon. Clean, crisp white towels and sheets. There are no dirty dishes. No one has placed underwear in the CD player. There are no random socks on the back of the chair. There is no dust, crumbs or sand.
The spa smells good.
Lavender. Orange. Peppermint. I live with three males. Enough said.
The spa has yummy water and dainty food.
Water infused with orange and cucumber. Cool. Just right. Neat crackers line a white plate and bite sized chocolates have fun swirls on top. Cheez-its are nowhere to be found and macaroni and cheese would not be welcome here.
The spa has “people.”
While I’m waiting in my white, fluffy robe, my girl pours warm water over my feet. A foot bath. After five minutes, she even takes my feet out, and dries them off. She carries my drink for me. She asks if I’m comfortable, or would I like a plate of snacks? She whispers. After my facial, she is waiting outside my door with a glass of fresh water.
Who wouldn’t want to live there?