So we had an anniversary this weekend. Actually, like, three of them.
11 years ago Rob got brave and asked me out on a date.
Good thing, too. Turned out to be the best last first date, ever.
3 years ago Rob got down on one knee and made an honest woman out of me.
He gave me diamonds. Really, really shiny ones.
Then 2 years ago, we dragged 40 of our nearest and dearest to sunny Mexico for a wedding in the sand (truth? they all just wanted a vacation and totally used us, sheesh)
I walked down the aisle to a song Rob wrote for me on the guitar I bought for him as an engagement gift. (I kinda felt like I owed him for the diamonds.)
So, what threads these lovely events together? December 12.
(Or as Rob and I affectionately refer to it, simply, 12.12)
And that’s why we were at the spa yesterday (finally, the point to this post.)
Rob had called the spa on Wednesday in a last-ditch (but well efforted) attempt to get us a weekend’s stay at Le Scandanave, a swanky spa near the skiing village of Blue Mountain. Needless to say, they were fully booked and our anniversary plans [that we should have made ages ago] fizzled. Gawd, like, doesn’t everyone make anniversary plans mere hours in advance? Apparently not.
The next day at work I called the spa.
sandyb: “Hi, I’m calling to confirm our reservation?”
la scandinave girl: “OK, what’s your last name…”
*blah blah blah*
sandyb: “What do you mean you don’t have my reservation?! I booked, like three months ago…”
LSG: “We don’t see a reservation here ma’am, I’m sorry.”
(sidenote: You can learn how I feel about being “ma’am’d” here)
sandyb: “Well, I don’t know what to say then. Is there something we can do? I’m very upset about this” [hold breath, 2, 3, 4..]
LSG: “Let me call you right back ma’am.”
*several minutes pass. I actually get around to doing some real work for the day job, grab another cup of coffee and wait for the phone to ring.. because it will.*
sandyb: “Hello? Yes, this is she.”
LSG: “We have a room for you this weekend, so sorry for the confusion.”
sandyb: “Wonderful. You had me panicked.”
At the spa, after a frantic mad dash to the boonies for a, he-hem, relaxing massage that I totally lied my way into, I realize two things:
1. I left my bikini at home. (We were supposed to bring swimsuits for the outdoor spas, baths, saunas, etc.) I must now pay upwards of $50 for an ugly rendition of a bathing suit last seen on Baywatch. Dammit.
2. I forgot to ask for “female massage therapists, please”- a cardinal rule of mine (and Rob’s) for like, ever. Oddly, both of us feel more comfortable being oiled and rubbed down by chicks. And, no, it’s not a sex thing.
As two dudes round the corner, barefoot and wearing JOGGING PANTS ready to rub us down, I realize the following almost instantly: Although I may be a great liar I am also a big believer in karma, which means a narrowly missed spa appointment, being out fifty bucks for a lopsided bathing suit that I don’t want, like or will ever wear again, and being rubbed down by someone who resembles the Close Talker from Seinfeld is the Universe’s way of giving me the finger.
Point taken, Universe. You win.