The Knysna Adventure
I went to Knysna to cheerlead for friends who were running the marathon. Yet, after spending a day submerged [literally] in the Knsyna weather, I realised that a) I did not take to rain like that woman up there and b) I’d be a much better cheerleader [nay person] from the comfort of my bed. Apparently so did the local running committee, as they cancelled the marathon due to high winds, torrential rains and rough seas. Okay, the last one isn’t true, but the waves were pretty high. Trust me, as I am a guru on all things ocean… and our house is on an island, in the middle of the lagoon.
Given the lashing rain, derailed plans, my soaked shoes, the abundance of rugby on the TV [an enigma I know nothing about] and the fact that I was recovering from the most vicious cold known to humankind. It was suggested that I test out the nearby spa.
I googled, dialed, booked and arrived. Before I could enter the hallowed space, the establishment required that I complete a form which SPECIFICALLY enquired if I was in the throes of PMS. I really feel that if the patient has ticked that box, the poor therapist should take it to heart. And not attempt to engage these women further, for fear of their lives. Because underneath their composed exterior, some women are crazed, demon banshees from beyond the depths of hell during this time and should not be spoken to. [And I've tried, PRIMROSE OIL DOESNT WORK?!]
I’ve had trouble with my skin lately. Something is successfully colonizing the right side of my chin and even if I permanently hooked myself up to the garden hose, my skin would still be dehydrated. [Thank you Winter]. Safe to say that my skin is a sore point at the moment. Just add the melting pot of hormones and you’ve got yourself a recipe for sheer, unadulterated horror that not even Hitchcock could fathom.
I lay on the table whilst the woman (who really was a very kind soul) gave me the massage and passionately dramatised (hand gestures included) the horrors of the crows feet, wrinkles and aged skin that were speeding towards my face at a zillion miles an hours. Why wasn’t I doing XYZ followed by ABC with a dash of TMI? Why wasn’t I meticulously squeezing gloop from an Amazonian hopping frog’s left toe and applying it around my eyes? Why wasn’t I here every week, every day and twice on Sundays?
It was too late, she cried! I realised I may as well accept my fate or buy a porcupine, douse it in botox and stick my face into it each morning. I tried [in vain] to tell her I was a recent survivor of man flu [yes women do get it], that most of my skin had been scraped off in the valiant battle between nose, mucus and toilet roll and that my face didn’t normally look like half of it had been left at home.
She waved this excuse away, proceeded to repeatedly squeeze (read: stick a scalpel into) each of my pores and then smothered me with a hot towel. And people say facials aren’t relaxing? Clearly these people are lunatics. This is far more relaxing than being beaten with hot pokers and then crushed by a steamroller.
Anyway, as I lay there on the heated bed (sweating somewhat unglamorously) I realised the following:
I am turning 25 this year
I have not won any Olympic Medals, Oscars or Grammys.
I haven’t listed the world’s biggest social network on the stock exchange.
I have not climbed Kilimanjaro.
I do not own a dog that can send text messages.
People in Uzbekistan do not know my name, face or URL.
I need more realistic goals.
I do not go for facials as often as society demands.
Who needs conventional achievements anyway?
This experience is over, why am I still lying on this bed?
How long have I been here?
I should go home and blog about this.
PS If you got the joke in the post title, there’s a chance that we both watch too many movies.
*images sourced thanks to these guys