Listen, I'm not telling anyone else about this. I didn't even tell my sister.
We went to a fancy-shmancy spa today, the Sibs and I, she for a facial and I for a massage. I do like a massage every now and then, but I've never found The Perfect place to go for one. A lot of people talk about this place, so I thought I'd give it a go. They do big business in gift certificates; husbands and children give moms gift certificates to the spa when they can't think of anything else to get them for Christmas, or a birthday. That's how the Sibs first found it for facials.
So. I was led into the massage locker room (Sibs went to the facials locker room) where I could lock my clothes in a locker, put on a terry robe, and wait around for my turn. Done. Massage: nice, not extraordinary. Done. Return to the locker room, scoop all my clothes out of the little locker, head into the little dressing room to put them on.
Done. Dump the used robe -- and slippers -- into the built-in hamper. They must empty it often; the opening is counter-height and what's in there is a pile less than a foot high. Done, done, ready to go ...
Where's my underwear?
Hold those thoughts, folks, not the underwear I had on. I put on clean underwear when I got dressed. Where's the underwear I came in wearing?
Um ... um ... I guess that would be in the hamper since I think I scooped it up with the robe and dumped it all in there together. The hamper I was not willing to reach all the way down into to grope around looking for lost underwear. Eeuuw.
Thank goodness I didn't write my name on the label like I was going to camp. Now that would have been embarrassing.
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I'm watching Ellen
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