For the record, the only good thing about a day at H*lt Renfr*ew is the feeling of superiority inherent in spending four hours at the hands of the proto-anorexic shallow subhuman.
Oh yes, my favourite part was where they encouraged me to use extra make-up! Go for the fake lashes look, the "free makeup consultant" said! Who cares if they look plastic? Boys like long lashes. And we all know how important it is to wear makeup to get boys!
Oh no wait, I don't think I was wearing any at the time. I was too busy using my brain. I must've been doing it all wrong, then. Wait, let's backup! I need to start over and do it properly!
Talk about a reminder that I have the best guy evarrr. The only time he comments on makeup is to complain that he doesn't like it when I hide myself.
The facial lady spent my hour of enforced confinement (they glooped my eyes shut and wrapped me in constrictive layers of towels) explaining how important it is not to get wrinkles and how much moisturizer I need to keep my skin soft.
It's funny, and I was polite enough not to tell her then, that the only secret I've found so far to keeping my skin this soft and young is not using eighteen pounds of makeup and chemicals unless some corporate function absolutly demands full costume. That, and you know what tanning beds do for skin. Oh you don't?
That must be because you're too stupid to read. The occasional attempts to answer my innocent sounding "why"s with pseudo-scientific jargon were laudable.
The not so funny part is how many women spend time in these cesspits and believe what they're told, buy the products that they're advised to, and generate their self-image based on the opinion of a wrinkled harpie.
Massages are one thing, and whilst I agree that there should be more of them in the universe -- there is no way in hell that I could let one of those women touch me so intimately in all their forced sincerity. Whilst I feel pity for women who need this false address and feigned sincerest attention to find the only moments where it's "all about them" in their lives, quite frankly pampering to me is what I did this afternoon -- an hour in a steaming tub with a good book and some teabags. Eight rounds of perrier in a borrowed bathrobe and beige leather furniture just doesn't do it for me.
And yes, I am being caustic. And yes, I am being very arrogant. Yes, my hackles are definitely up.
Fortunately, there's a dive with a string of drinks with my name on all of them, and then a night out dancing like I haven't had in a while.
No, I won't be dancing much -- slipped disks take a long time to work back into their network of muscle, but tonight I'm going to ignore the pain and move with the youth and strength I'm not prepared to give up yet.
Or anytime soon.
And your pity? Suck on it, it's the only thing you've got in those lonely moments. I don't need it.