I went on my first “girls’ weekend away” about a month ago.  I accept this makes me a late adaptor*.

Anyway, it was a straightforward plan:  Other Jackie and I leave Sydney at 2:30pm Friday afternoon, arrive at posh resort following leisurely drive, in time to colonise the sofas closest to the fire, start consumption of Veuve (or French of equivalent stature)  and forget work.  Followed by a chaser of rejuvenating facials and massages.  Yes.  This was how adult women spend weekends.  Away from children’s  soccer and compulsively checking the wet weather line just in case.  This was what the resort website promised.

Except we are lawyers.  And so of course the 2:30pm Friday departure morphed (following many teary texts and bright exhortations to “THINK POSITIVELY!  we are going AWAY FOR THE WEEKEND.  Your 8 hour telecon MUST end soon.  And of COURSE you can ask for a toilet break – it is a human rights issue”)  into an 8:30am Saturday departure which had us arriving just as breakfast (included in our package ) was finishing up.  After heated discussion with the staff, swiftly followed by resentful checking in prior to consumption of breakfast items disdained by other guests, we had arrived.

And just in time for our appointments at the in-house spa.  Yes, we should have known that simultaneous appointments and the ominous sign to “Massage Room”  meant that at least 2 of us were undergoing the treatments in the same room.  At the same time.  These are good friends of mine.  Just not get-into-your-underwear in-front-of-friends.**  Having concluded with Other Jackie that we were ok with this.  That there was to be no chatting, yes we will be FINE, we started filling in the and I am not kidding TWO PAGE QUESTIONNAIRE about ourselves and our health.  TWO PAGES??  Most CONSULTANT NEUROLOGISTS don’t ask for that much information.  Are you on any drugs?  Yes.  I listed all of them.  Do you have any health conditions?  Yes.  Are you stressed?  YES MUCH MORE SO AFTER THIS QUESTIONNAIRE.  ”Clinical Beauty Consultant” Chantal smiled and nodded thoughtfully as she read it all. As though she had a clue what any of it meant.   Or if it were even real.

What had I put?  That my doctor prescribed rohypnol to help me sleep?   BUT WHAT ELSE HAD I PUT?  I don’t even know if I actually got to the point where I was making drugs or ailments up.  But plainly I must have made up that I had been seeing a dermatologist because Chantal eventually circled back to that one.  I toyed with not putting down my real job.  But I was too affronted by the intrusive medical inquisition to think of anything interesting and besides Other Jackie is even more of a rule obeyer than I am.

Anyway, having removed our clothes (outer garments only), we lay on the parallel treatment beds for the luxury to begin.  After about 5 minutes I became aware that the noise that was coming from Chantal’s hand area did not sound like anything I had encountered while having a facial.  And I have one facial a month.  It took me slightly longer to realise that the noise was the sound of latex.  Latex?  What the hell had I put on the questionnaire?  Was there a question that asked if I were an IV drug user that I had inadvertently said yes to?  Did I appear….unwashed?  Did Chantal think that my rohypnols were illicitly acquired?

Despite the Peruvian flute music designed to induce relaxation, my mind was racing.  What sort of person did Chantal think I was?  How dishevelled must I really appear?  How could I have been this deluded for this long about my appearance?

After what seemed like 5 minutes since the latex discovery Chantal and her colleague each whispered in Other Jackie and my ears “how does that feel?  Hmmmmm?  Nice and relaxed, hmmmm?  Well, we will let you get dressed”.

What the fuck?  This had gone on for no more than 15 minutes.  And then I SAW that Chantal had indeed been wearing latex gloves under which a weeping sore seemed to be begging angrily to be let free.  “Was yours wearing LATEX?” I hissed at Other Jackie?  “Um, what – no?”.  At which point we started that convulsive silly giggling that sometimes just happens, ok, Chip?   It is not hormonal hysteria.

And then they returned.  “Now” said Chantal, “you said in your questionnaire that you had been seeing a dermatologist, hmm”?  What?  I said no such thing, I wanted to say.  But I was still recovering from the latex so I just sort of smiled stupidly as she continued ” you know, the thing about dermatologists is that they can go … (slight cough) TOO FAR….they can…. cross the line sometimes.”  What. Was. She. Saying?  Stunned I continued to grin as though, yes Chantal, you got me right.  All those other non-latex glove wearing beauty therapists have not seen my clearly botched “work” BUT YOU HAVE.

And as though my reaction confirmed another deeply held suspicion she moved closer to me and again with the whispering.  “One of our products has been especially designed for” …. and here her voice trailed off and there was a slight pause as though she didn’t like to bring it up. “Burns victims”, she shook her head sadly.  I am 42.  Am I that hideously disfigured that a woman with a weeping sore hand that must be sheathed in latex has to recommend honey based products because of their apparently unparalleled incredible success with poor burns victims?  Clearly in the Clinical Beauty Consultant’s professional opinion, I am.

*  Chips says it’s adopter.  But I like this description better

** I actually don’t think I have friends like this.  I don’t even undress in front of The Sisters.  This is no doubt related to my arch Catholic upbringing during which we were constantly exhorted by Patience to “put your legs down in case the priest calls in”.  He never did.