And I also’m done pretending otherwise.
Twice a year we have a ritual. We rise to Thirty-Second Street in Manhattan’s Koreatown and go to an anonymous building where i will be greeted by a little, gorgeous Russian woman who leads us to a collection of mesh disposable undies, famous brands that we hadn’t seen since slipping in some of those bad males into the maternity ward after having a baby. No loaf-sized pad to layer in, though, or mewling child to squish onto a nipple. No, today, in my own sheer (what’s the point) water-repellent undies, i will be directed into an igloo-shaped hot dry sauna, then the spa saturated in lemons, then a cool bath bath tub high in cucumbers, then the hot damp sauna.
The spa is certainly not so much soothing because it is a march of boobs-out, crotch-masked effectiveness. Every thing around me personally is busy. Little Asian women bustle about, directing clients in some places, leading dripping, nude systems back and forth. A vinyl-topped massage table that recalls a combo of your great-aunt’s plastic-covered floral love seat and Hannibal Lecter’s dissection room after emerging, dripping sweat, from the steam room, I am led by the elbow to my penultimate destination. Right Here, my clinician instructs us to take away the mesh and set down to my belly from the slippery synthetic.
I will be nude, ass-side through to the plastic-coated dining dining dining table, whenever she begins throwing buckets of warm water on me from an industrial-size drum.