It wasn’t always this way. My sojourn to the dark side began with an argument. A late summer’s evening found me engaged in nonsensical combat with my lovely, dark-haired wife, Therese. We were wielding verbal daggers with abandon, spilling emotional blood all over the floor; evidence of a marriage stressed by too much time spent growing a business and not enough time nurturing the soul.

Fortunately, before either of us delivered a killing blow, we came to our senses and realized our bitterness and frustration were not stemming from anger toward each other but from a need to slow down, recharge our batteries and reconnect as husband and wife, not business partners.

To us, “slowing down” included heading off into the Nevada desert in a 4x4 loaded with coolers, camping gear, mountain bikes and a loose plan to explore ghost towns and wild spaces. Sore muscles, sunburned noses and a few bloody blisters often made us smile and forget our everyday stress, but both of us knew that a week in the wilderness wouldn’t cut it this time.

Illustration by Darcy Muenchrath

Within minutes of arriving at that conclusion, my wife looked up brightly through eyes shining now with possibility instead of tears and said a word that sent shudders into my very marrow: “spa.”

Until that moment in my life, the word “spa” implied a terrifying world filled with stifling grape-seed mud wraps, sticky seaweed-honey-butter exfoliations, and too-girly embroidered terrycloth robes and plush slippers. As I imagined it, everywhere you looked there would be dozens of overindulged heiresses named Paris who spent as much time flirting with the mirror as they did with their tan, chiseled, pony-tailed trainer named Claude. It just wasn’t my scene.

But as Therese went on to describe fine bed linens and breakfasts in bed, I grew intrigued. Mid-morning steam baths, noon massages, late afternoon naps and sun-dappled evening walks, wandering aimlessly down tree-lined lanes, sipping chilled Viognier? Maybe I could give it a try.

Before I could second-guess my decision, I found myself checking into the decadent St. Helena, a Napa Valley village dedicated to food, wine and specializing in soul restoration.
Our sanctuary for four days boasted a vaulted ceiling, a stone fireplace and glorious French doors that opened wide onto a private balcony with an expansive view of distant vineyards and mountains—never mind the immediate view of the dumpster and parking lot below. (Apparently, even Nirvana has to be practical to keep the chi from surging out of control.)
And when our concierge alerted us that our room had complimentary high-speed connection to the Web, we replied that what we needed most was not a high-speed connection but a low-speed disconnect from the daily grind—and that meant no cell phones, no television, no Web surfing and absolutely, positively no email. We were unplugging from everything so we could reconnect.

Our first morning in paradise, I flung open the French doors, allowing early-morning sunlight to stream in and caress our skin as we both lounged resplendently in a king-sized bed crowned with a down comforter so deep and plush 1,000 ducks were probably shivering somewhere in Europe cursing this spa’s existence.

A quick round of rock/paper/scissors left Therese with the task of slipping into a robe and out the door to fetch breakfast. (We agreed to alternate morning breakfast runs from then on.) She returned with a tray loaded down under the weight of fresh rolls, fruit-filled pastries, blackberries, strawberries, grapes, kiwi and orange slices, and steaming cups of coffee. Amid all the china cups, plates and linen napkins, the only papers found in paradise were our three morning newspapers—The Wall Street Journal, New York Times and the San Francisco Chronicle.

Finally, our lives were moving more slowly than the minute hand on my watch. As the sun crept high, we removed the “Do Not Disturb” sign from the door and meandered across the stone floor of the lobby, through the courtyard and into the health spa.

In a changing room more well-appointed than most homes, with comfy chairs, stone counter tops, expensive lotions and oils, and stacks of fresh towels, I slipped out of my clothes and into, yes, a terrycloth robe and slippers.

Sounds of Enya and rushing water from nearby fountains filled the waiting room as I sipped a cool drink of water infused with essence of orange, lime, mango, tangerine and who knows what else. My wife emerged looking more beautiful than ever, but before I could suggest that perhaps we should duck out and head back to our room, a shadow fell over me. I looked up to see a mass of humanity filling the entire doorway—his fingers were bigger than my wrists.

“Good morning Mr. Hodgson. Are you ready for your massage?” he queried with a surprisingly gentle voice.

The last time a man that large and well-muscled put hands on my backside, I was running for my life during a rugby match. I sure as hell wasn’t unclothed at the time, and the Samoan jock bearing down on my life wasn’t the least bit interested in fulfilling my latent need for rejuvenation or restoring my energy flow.

There was no turning back though. I nodded meekly toward my smiling wife and followed Gargantua to what was certain to be a painful body-crushing disguised as a Swedish massage. I’d worry about restoration and healing later I reasoned—once I checked out of the hospital I was going to need.

The spa brochure mentioned I’d be receiving a “pampering therapy of a premium crème massage,” but somehow I didn’t really want to hear the word “pamper” out of Gargantua’s mouth. Still, there he was, describing the essence of relaxing lavender and other herbs that he had added to the oils he’d be using. After asking if I had any injuries he should know about (I knew this was going to involve pain), he motioned for me to hang my robe on the back of the door and slipped out for a minute, so I could dive buck naked beneath the sheets on the massage table and begin whimpering in earnest.

Decades of jamming my toes into countless pairs of outdoor footwear have left my dogs several pumice stones shy of a pleasing feel or appearance. Apparently, this was obvious as Gargantua began by working a rich salve into my heels while explaining the exfoliating and softening benefits of the sugar honey and shea butter. Now I was getting hungry.
Bubbling water in the fountain. Scents of oils and herbs. The gentle warmth of the heated sheets—I could no longer resist the urge to give in and enjoy. And so I closed my eyes and let my mind loose to drift amid the many dreams and imaginations an overworked brain had somehow managed to forget.

The hour flashed by, and I wondered where all the kinks and painful aches had gone. Gargantua greeted me at the door with a glass of water with orange and lemon slices in it and encouraged me to follow up the massage with a eucalyptus steam. Brilliant idea!

I got used to spa life pretty quickly, I assure you. Late mornings in bed until slanting sunbeams chased me to the spa. A heated outdoor pool where a light swim was followed by lounging in chairs covered with luxurious towels as I turned the pages of the latest mystery novel. Noon massages and steam baths were capped off by late-afternoon lunches in local hangouts where everyone smiles, and sipping champagne with a club sandwich is not considered gauche. Sunset walks through vineyards, and candlelight dinners eating morels or some other exotic dish chased down with an aged cabernet. Easy laughter filling many of the waking moments.

I had to admit that despite my trepidation going in, the spa life was more than just relaxing. It was a nourishing, invigorating and refreshing indulgence for my soul and body. Time stood still. And I liked it.

No, I’m not even close to giving up climbing, paddling, trail running and the pursuit of ridiculous adventures for the sake of having a good time. I need that edge to add spice and vigor to my life’s banquet. But I have discovered that regular spa escapes add a much-needed flavor to my adventure-based soup. Heck—I’m even dragging my wife into stores to shop for shea butter and using words like “exfoliate” without cracking up.

I know. Some of you might think I’ve gone off the deep end. You may be right. But I’ll let you in on a little secret. Everything about our marriage is better since we began to spa—and I do mean everything.

So you can sling grape-seed mud, call me Spa Boy or damn near anything else. I’m too blissed out to care.

Last Updated: Feb 24th, 2006 - 14:18:11
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