I really do. Yesterday, after yet another horrifyingly stressful 11 hours at work, I headed over to Matthew's house for a just-us-girls spa night. It was Matthew's idea, and I had NO idea what to expect. I was thinking cheap mud masks and those strips that pull gunk out of your nose pores and maybe some scented lotion on our elbows -- all available in the discount aisle at our friendly neighborhood Walgreen's.
But Matthew is a certifiable spaholic, and he has a cupboard just bursting with high-end spa products. And it doesn't stop there -- he also has electrical contraptions and special teas and even heated lava rocks. So our evening played out thusly:
1) Shower and don loose pajama bottoms
2) 15 minutes on a chi machine shaking my legs back and forth, loosening my joints, settling my bowels and giving me a funky endorphin rush when it ended
3) Five-step chemical face peel followed by delicate little pats of eye cream
4) Foot soaking in pans filled with lava rocks, boiling water and some menthol-scented additive
5) Yummy tea
6) Foot spritzer and lotion
7) Chinese takeout and a weepy chick flick
And the whole treatment worked miracles on my tired old self -- even though I'm still kind of emotionally drained from my workweek, my skin looks fabulous!
I'd never seen An Affair to Remember, though, and I wasn't too impressed. When it wasn't giving us endless Meaningful Glances, it was trotting out little Negro children to entertain us with their Amazing Negro Dancing Abilities. Add not one but TWO dumped fiancees who are kind-hearted and understanding and supportive -- and throw in such oversensitivity to the handicapped as to render them unmentionable in polite society -- and you get an understanding of my disapproval. To top it off, Deborah Kerr's extensive couture is anything but fabulous -- though she's almost as beautiful as Cary Grant's grandmother's scenic Italian villa.