9:00 a.m. — Am I ready for my Renewal and Rejuvenation? Am I still getting a facial or have I accidentally enrolled in Bible Camp?
9:02 a.m. — Place my things in this locker. I like that they think my purse holds valuable stuff instead of a bunch of maxed out credit cards and errant chapstick caps.
9:04 a.m. — I’ve been here four minutes and have no clue where my locker key is.
9:05 a.m. — I can’t believe I have to walk through the lobby in this robe. I’m feeling gusts of lavender-scented air in dark places.
9:06 a.m. — Saunter casually. Lift your chin. Gaze with disinterest. This is the only way to walk in waffle weave.
9:07 a.m. — Sit in that chair. It faces the least number of other chairs in case you forget that you’re wearing a robe the length of Lindsay Lohan’s courtroom skirts.
9:09 a.m. — Why didn’t you get yourself a glass of water with fruit floating in it when you entered the room? Look around. Everyone else is sipping that floating fruit water. What kind of animal are you, not drinking water with fruit floating in it?
9:11 a.m. — Stop talking to yourself about the frigging floating fruit water. Just get up and get it. Carefully, now. It wasn’t a good day to forget underwear.
9:12 a.m. — No, no, no! There is a kiwi or a hunk of that star fruit or whatever it is that is sold at Whole Foods stuck in the spigot. Stay cool. Just give it a little nudge, not like a vending machine kick. Like a delicate, “Free my star fruit and let the water poureth forth into this irritatingly diminutive glass in my trembling hand.”
9:16 a.m. — Why am I still sitting here sipping fruit water and staring down the black corridor of this man’s thighs across from me? What does he have to be so smug about? Judging by the thicket of hair on his legs, he’s got plenty more where that came from.
9:18 a.m. — What did you say, weird lady who coerced me into this robe? My facialist is just preparing the essential oils? Is that spa talk for “her Ford Focus wouldn’t start, and now she is walking here from three towns over?”
9:20 a.m. — Oh my God. What if I’m not even supposed to be in a robe right now? Think about it, everyone else placed in this waiting room is awaiting a full-body massage. I’m just having some zits popped and Country Crock rubbed on my face. I should change back into my clothes …
9:23 a.m. — I would be more comfortable in a red FUBU track suit at this point. I’m going to just slip back to the locker room to … Oh! Yes, hello! Your name is Ula. Of course it is.
9:25 a.m. — Hmm, let me think about that … When was my last facial? It involved a tub of Noxzema, some french braiding and a Belinda Carlisle tape.
9:26 a.m. — What? Would I like to receive extractions? I think the question is “do you like drilling for crude oil?”
9:28 a.m. — Do I enjoy aromatherapy? I prefer regular therapy. Which scents? Ummm. I have to make up aromas now because I cannot think of a single legitimate one … Green Tea … dill weed … Cinnabons … Bounce fabric sheets … Drakkar Noir … petrol … My preferred aromas are really mostly acknowledged in Europe. Like David Hasselhoff. Which you should know as a Scandinavian-Ukrainian-Facialistian.
9:33 a.m. — I wish they would just play a musical track of digestive noises that way I wouldn’t have to worry about my own.
9:38 a.m. — Don’t laugh at the word décolletage. Don’t laugh at the word décolletage.
9:40 a.m. — I’m glad she’s not a talker. The only thing worse than having sebum extracted from your dermis is having to talk about “The Biggest Loser” while it’s happening.
9:45 a.m. — Wait, whoa, there. Where is she going? Why is she walking down to my feet? Why is she taking off my socks? I feel like it’s senior prom night again. Repress the memories.
9:46 a.m. — She’s massaging my calves. I haven’t shaved since the Bush Administration. Is this a pity massage? Why am I receiving a massage when I booked a facial? I KNEW IT. It’s the robe. I’ve confused everyone.
9:53 a.m. — This poor woman. She probably needs a B12 injection and a wrist brace by now.
10:00 a.m. — Ahh, we’re finished. Oh, you’ll make some product recommendations and leave them at the desk? Thank you, Ula. Now go home and tell your boyfriend how much you hate your job and me.
10:05 a.m. — Yes, it was wonderful, weird robe coercion lady, thank you for asking. Ah, my product recommendations. Look at that! How considerate of Ula to recommend every single product in the most available ounces.
10:07 a.m. — You know, I’m really going to have to see how my skin responds to these exotic ingredients because I just don’t know how … photosensitive … guava and honeydew might make my skin. It’s very sensitive. And I have a very careful skin care regimen that involves expired face wash and some Pam cooking spray. I’ll just take this sample — thank you — and my self esteem balloon with its gaping hole with me.
And some more of this frigging floating fruit water.
Erin Donovan moved with her family to the Midcoast where she constantly is told she says the word “scallops” incorrectly. She performs live and produces Web sketches derived from her popular humor blog “I’m Gonna Kill Him.” Follow her misadventures at imgonnakillhim.bangordailynews.com and on Twitter @gonnakillhim.