Me in a swanky spa equals awkward

I apologize for my elusiveness over the last few days. As I mentioned, we were on a mini, no-child, no-snow vacay in Dallas over the weekend with friends. And it was amazingly fun. We went lots of places and did lots of things, but the one I want to share here, of course, makes fun of me.

On our last day, our husbands suggested Kate and I get a manicure at the Nordstrom spa. Now to many of you who regularly get manicures, that might not sound like a big deal. But I never. get. manicures. Ever. Plus, I'm a little weird about strangers touching me. (Don't try to psychoanalyze. Just roll with it.) Even so, Matt gave me no choice, and off we went to Nordstrom.

When we arrived, they immediately separated Kate and me and placed us into tiny, private, spa rooms, complete with dim lighting and Celtic, chanty, spa music. The separation threw me. I wanted to panic, but kept silently chanting, "Play it cool, Ang. Pretend you do this all the time. Just another day at the spa. Just another day at the spa." Then the nice lady had me lay down in a reclining chair (awkward), covered me with white blankets (so awkward), then said, "Ok, just close your eyes and relax," as she placed a warm towel over my face (oh, dear Lord).

Add "loss of vision" to my list of possibly causes for breakdown. Cue full-on panic.

(As a side note, I looked up the definition for panic attack. It is as follows: "an intense attack of anxiety characterized by feelings of impending doom and trembling, sweating, pounding heart, and other physical symptoms." Check. Check. Check. Check, and check.)

After a few minutes of the woman massaging my hands with seventeen different lotions, then putting them in the hot wax gloves, I realized some of my anxiety had dwindled, and I was actually sort of enjoying the experience. And then a few brief moments later, I was overcome with the question.... "Who in the heck do I think I am?" I mean there I was, lying in a chair, covered in lightly scented spa towels, while a perfectly nice woman with extremely strong hands was massaging me as though I were Cleopatra or English royalty. At that point, I was thankful for the towel over my face because I could not help but laugh at myself.

When it was all over and we met up with the boys, I showed Matt my fabulous nails and told him about the whole thing. He, knowing me the way he does, gave me a hug and laughed. Hard. And when I told him how ridiculous I felt about having someone take care of me that way, he said, "That's exactly what you deserve. I wish we could do it more often."

I love that he feels that way, and a part of me wishes I could, too. And I don't think it's just me. I mean, I know lots of women who frequent the spa often, and I think that's great. But I know just as many who never think to treat themselves and who, most likely, just like me, believe the $45 spent on them alone just isn't worth the money. But you know what? It was worth it. Even though I had to fight through my weird, irrational anxiety stuff, I had 45 minutes that, for the first time in who knows how long, was all about me. It's rare. It's precious. But I think it's ok.

What about you? Do you treat yourself enough?