R Man is sick, poor lamb, sore throat and congested and achy. He’s been that way ever since we got back from Annapolis, it was the flight, I’m sure. Isn’t it just a given anymore that the mere act of stepping onto a plane will guarantee you get sick? Plus this one seemed unusually germ-laden. Everyone around us was wheezing and spewing: Southwest Airlines, the Flying Phlegm Bucket. And then the day after we got back he had to fly down to Los Angeles for work, so he got a double dose.
I am, of course, being lovingly supportive because that’s just the sort of angelic partner I am. Equal parts of tea in bed, cough syrup, and nagging that he stay home from work, which he ignores. Anyway, Saturday night, I tucked him into the couch, built a fire, put the tea close to hand, said “Try not to die before I get home,” and then split because how long can you be Donna Fucking Reed, anyway? Am I right?
I took my little self on off to the Kabuki Spa for a course of steam room and massage. Oh, the glam spa life. I want to reiterate the spa is not That Kind of baths. No friskiness, no sirree. Instead, it’s an oasis of high style (very chic asian moderne) and serenity (talking is frowned on and there’s a gong you’re supposed to strike to request silence in case the patrons forget themselves so far as to start chatting. I’m always dying to whack it a good one, but I never get to.) They offer a fabulously hot steam room and a great big hot tub with salt water rather than chlorine and bowls of delish sliced apples. And plenty of muscular naked men to ogle. If, like me, you’re appreciative of Asian beuaty, this is just the place to be. Asian hotties and free snacks – that’s my idea of heaven.
And excellent, excellent massage. I’m a big fan of shiatsu where the massage guy digs in and forces your muscles to surrender. Last night the shiatsuer was particularly talented. I said to him, I said, “Jake, you’re a genius, an artist,” I said. So you can guess how disappointed I was later to find out his name was actually Brad. Jake, Brad, one of them butch little movie star names. It just reinforces my policy of addressing everyone as “honey.”
And then when I got home, R Man had not died, in fact, he hadn’t stirred from the couch. It’s a wonderful life.