As you all already know, being the New Gal is not one of my strong points. This extends to many facets of life and boils down to one essential point – I don’t like not knowing what I am doing.

Close your eyes and think about the words “Spa” and “Massage”. No doubt you are seeing glossy magazines, the dratted Nivea Girl, edible-sounding scrubs (names like Mango Infused Sea Salt Satin Wrap with Pomegranate and Patchouli Essence), rubs, wraps, soaks…you’re probably hearing the calming sound of waves breaking on a pristine beach, the haunting cry of mating whales…you’re feeling sensual oils and soothing hands…

Blah blah and so on.

I too, pictured all those things. Who wouldn’t, faced with the constant onslaught of Nivea Girls and Perfect Flora Families? The problem does not lie in what I pictured.

The problem lies in my habitual fear of not knowing what I am doing.

So – here’s how those two words shaped up for me. I arrived at the Spa, parked (uncertainly, looking nervously over my shoulder for the habitual Disapproving Guard/Gardener/Nivea Girl/Gal Who Came Last Time) then made my way (uncertainly) towards the entrance.

Now, I don’t know if it’s just me, but The Entrance is always a pretty big ordeal. Most obviously because, if you’ve never been to the place before, you simply do not know where It is. And for the most part, It is never obvious! And there is nothing more embarrassing (apart from the odd Water Cooler Incident, or Yoga Mat Location, or Conversation From The Bath…ok, there are a lot of embarrassing moments out there, but today I’m on the Spa Blog, so I’ll stick to that)…

Anyway, as I was saying – there is nothing more embarrassing than walking (with a confident I-Know-Exactly-Where-I’m-Going air, inspired by Nivea Girls and too many self-help articles) into:

a) A broom cupboard
b) A glass door…that is closed.
c) The Wrong Entrance

Now, in case you are wondering, I have done all 3 on various occasions, in various states of sobriety, under various different circumstances. What links them all is the abject feeling of “Oh no. Oh drat. Oh dear. Oh rats. Oh &*^%$” when you realize that:

a) You’re in the broom cupboard
b) You are coming round, surrounded by Gals who Came Last Time and strange little birds tweeting in circles over your head
c) You have inadvertently walked in on
i. A Full Body Massage (Not yours)
ii. A room full of Nivea Girls in white tunics and eyelash extensions, crowded around the water cooler, exchanging gossip (presumably about Yoga and The Girl who Ran Over Enzo)
iii. The toilet
Etc and so on, I think you get the picture.

In this instance, happily, the first door I tried was not made of glass and was well and truly locked, preventing any disastrous results. Admittedly there were a few Nivea Eyelash Extensions who made surreptitious note of my first failed attempt, sitting (prettily) inside the (very clearly marked, as it turns out) Reception, peering (beautifully) out on my confident I-Know-Exactly-Where-I’m-Going attack on the door (to the garage).

I mean, seriously, why is it that people just sit and watch while you blatantly do The Wrong Thing? Why don’t they jump up (prettily) and say (helpfully) “This way, madam” or something ?? Why don’t they cough discreetly or hiccup politely to get your attention? It’s like having spinach in your teeth. No one ever tells you!

Anyway, I digress. To get back to the point, I finally made it to the (very clearly signposted but who notices faced with the trauma of being the new gal in Nivea-Infested surrounds??) Reception where I dutifully announced my name in a clear, ringing tone of confident assurance…(ok, ok, I bleated it rather sheepishly, but you weren’t there so I can embellish a bit).

Now, if you’re a gal who came last time, you generally know a few essential facts, like:
a) Who is doing your treatment
b) What your treatment actually is
c) Which of the 5 Nivea Girls at the desk is actually the correct one to address when bleating your name in a stridently sheepish manner.

It turns out that the Nivea Girl I randomly picked to make my announcement to was, in fact, the cleaner (something that under less…er…traumatic conditions I may have been alerted to, given the mop in her hand and the eau de windowlene about her) and so I was forced to turn brazenly to my next choice and make my confession again, “Bleat, bleat, bleat.”

Long story short, they eventually worked out who I was and what I was there for. Which was pretty good going, considering I still haven’t quite got to the bottom of either of those issues myself.

And so I found myself filling out a form full of complicated questions like:
a) What do you hope to get out of your Treatment today?
b) Is your lifestyle active, moderate or sedentary?
c) What is your usual beauty routine?
Well, to those of you who have followed my blogs, you will know that such existentially obscure questions should really not be posed to me, as a general rule. I am simply not very good at the answers, even under the very safest conditions (at home, in my bed, sucking my thumb and reading a book). And as I have already explained, I am not at my best (to put it mildly) when I don’t know what I am doing…

So here is what I answered:
a) What do I hope to get out of my Treatment today? Uh…a massage. Duh!
b) My lifestyle is none of your business. I mean, these are the days of 50 shades of Anything and when you look at it like that, the question doesn’t really bear THINKING about, let alone answering, so I am not going to tell you.
c) My Usual Beauty Routine. Um…does peering manically into my compact muttering “Mirror mirror in my bag, please tell me I’m not a hag…” count?

I finally handed it in, fully expecting it to be marked. Happily no one even read it. I know this because I got asked the same questions all over again in The Massage Room, along with some that hadn’t even been on the original exam like what my Drinking Habits were and whether I like it Hard or Soft. At this point I was beginning to hyperventilate sheepishly.

So 20 minutes into my appointment and I was finally following Nivea Girl No 4 up the stairs and into a darkened room…I kid you not. It was 9:20 am outside, but inside it was permanently Twilight. I looked furtively around for vampires, and was met with an eerie howl…(Ok, that was the iPod doing its Mating Whale thing, but when you’ve never been to a place before…well, I’m just saying…)

So there I was, in the dark, peering around myopically and trying to adjust my eyes to the gloom, when it suddenly occurred to me that Nivea No 4 was looking at me expectantly. I looked back in my best What’s Eating You fashion, but eventually (after about 3 seconds) my nerve failed me and I bleated miserably… “Bleehh, bleehh, whaa..?” or something like that.

What I was trying to say, without actually saying it, was “What the £$%@ am I supposed to do now?” Because, of course, I had no idea. In principle, I knew that a massage involved oils and stuff, mashed banana maybe with the odd lashings of sea salt or who knew what…or is that a facial? Anyway, suffice it to say – I was clueless.

So there I was, standing there fully clothed, with shoes on, still reeling from my existential battle with the Entrance Exam, in the dark, with whales mating, and Nivea No 4 waiting…She eventually blinked, showed me an operating table, told me to take everything off, and left me.

Now I know most of you have probably had a million massages (or even 1 or 2), and you’ve probably been to millions of spas and read plenty of self-help articles on Massage Protocols. But I haven’t.

And I am also not very good at whipping my clothes off in a relaxed manner and settling myself down comfortably down on an operating table in a strange, twilight room, with whales mating above my head. I know that sounds silly, but there it is.

I am a prude. I am also inordinately concerned about things like grey underwear and cellulite, not to mention where to hang my bra and what sort of conversation one is expected to strike up with Nivea No 4 whilst lying with one’s face in a hole, naked. I mean, it’s just not really my idea of relaxation, no matter how I look at it. But, as most of you will know, I am not one to make my concerns known out loud. I tend to watch and wait and hope to eventually work things out, hopefully without too much catastrophe…

So there I was, lying face down with my head in a hole, naked quivery bits all over the show, miserably staring at the floor and wishing I’d walked into the broom closet and stayed there when there was a discreet tap at the door and Someone walked in. I squeezed my eyes shut and prepared myself for whatever lay in store. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t actually know who had just walked in, and that I was head down in a hole, and that this was not the most elegant position in which to be discovered in the (highly likely) event of another New Gal getting the Wrong Door…

Thankfully, it was Nivea No 4. Or at least I think it was. She had purple toenails. In any case, even if it wasn’t Nivea No 4, she set to work with a purpose and a vengeance that was terrifying.

I mean, why on earth do ordinary human beings go around propagating the myth of a relaxing massage?? It is a complete fabrication. Massage is NOT relaxing. It is a terrifying experience. It is full of awkward moments and psychologically traumatic events. Quite apart from the indignity of being face down and naked, it is quite simply *&^%ing sore. It is interspersed with ungainly grunts and abject squeals of pain. What in heck is relaxing about being embarrassed, uncomfortable and in pain????

And as for those of you Gals Who Came Last Time, who claim to “fall asleep” during a massage…I quite simply do not believe you. The only thing close to sleep that I experienced was the real time nightmare I was in. Gloomy room, mating whales, excruciating ministrations of The Purple Toed Monster…it was like something out of Harry Potter on Steroids.

Needless to say, I did not voice any of this to Nivea No 4. I lay obediently with my head in a hole, biting down with all my might on my lip to prevent too many unladylike emissions. I cried real tears, which dripped forlornly onto the floor, narrowly missing the purple toenails. I counted to 43 950. Twice. I counted the stars I was seeing. I counted my blessings. I counted the seconds until I could get out of there.

I can just about work out why one would subject oneself voluntarily to a massage in the first place. I mean, we have already discussed the media hype and the mental picture blah blah etc. So that bit I get. What I don’t get, and can’t for the life of me work out, is why one would ever in a million years go back for another one??

But when I shakily got up off that operating table (big red ring around my face), located my bra and sheepishly escaped from the Twilight Zone…get this…I THANKED Nivea No 4. I really did. I said “Thank you so much. That was lovely.” Seriously. That’s what I said. And when she suggested that I book for a follow up session, I said “Oh yes please, that would be lovely.”

And it clicked – THAT’s why people go back a second time.