truth in advertising

Hot. Stone. Massage.

Check, check, and check. I had my very first hot stone massage last week at the Venetian's Canyon Ranch Spa in Las Vegas. As advertised, there was a massage, with stones, which were very hot. I loved it, but. . . the lady who did the massage -- Peach -- was weirdly businesslike.

Normally, I love businesslike -- especially where massages are concerned. And I am on record as being firmly against new age. I am old age. I hate patchouli (which was a major problem when I worked at the OAG in Austin and had to walk through an ever-present cloud of incense en route to that sushi place on the drag. I would instantly lose my appetite and my $3.00 tuna roll would go to waste. blech.); I am not in touch with my feelings; I spend the meditation part of yoga reviewing my to-do list for work; and sitar music gives me a stabbing pain just behind my left ear.

As much as I thought I liked businesslike, Peach out-businessliked me like she was taking candy from a baby. I almost longed for a little Yanni to soften the mood. Can we light some candles in here or something? Yeesh. Getting a massage from Peach (who is in her 60s) was kind of like visiting your Grandmother. Not the one who buys you things and lets you eat the crap that your parents won't let you eat -- the other one. The one who's going to do what's best for you, even if it's unpleasant. The one who thinks you should be out of bed by 7:00a.m. or you're wasting the day; the one who never spends her money on frivolous things and who goes for vigorous walks after sensible meals. That's Peach. Anyway, after 80 minutes of yanking and pulling me around the table, mechanically pressing rocks into my body, firmly placing my limbs where they needed to be, and snapping the sheets down over me, I was done. And I have to say, it was kind of a relief. My muscles were relieved, and so were my nerves. Definitely get a hot stone massage sometime, but not from any lady named Peach.