misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

My trip to Maui was my first-ever attempt at a wellness vacation (not to be confused for a Loch Ness vacation). I've fantasized about such a vacation since I was 19-years-old, sleeping in the cramped passenger seat of Hector's Nissan Pulsar, penniless after a rough night at Reno's Silver Legacy Casino, unable to afford a motel room or warm breakfast. From then, I trudged through the typical trips of a college kid and, later, a twenty-something: maintaining drunkenness for as many days as possible without sleep, eating daily meals at Carl's Jr., sleeping with six grown men in the cheapest available room, farting, waking up hung over to start drinking again. Now, without mistake, these trips were fun, but they certainly weren't beneficial to my overall mental or physical health. As I aged, and life inevitably became more .. complex, the need for a true vacation (vs. a trip) became more pressing. Vacation, by definition, means escaping the routine of home. For many people who do not live in a city (and whose day-to-day home life is a tad more responsible than mine), a vacation means drinking, staying up late, and going to expensive dinners. However, I do this every day at home, so my vacations are only different if I eat vegetables, use treadmills, and go to bed before 3 am. For a variety of reasons, I've never been able to take a vacation like that.

Until Maui.

To the backdrop of volcanic air and tropical birds, I ran in the morning. I ate yogurt and fruit for breakfast, fish for lunch, Round Table Pizza for dinner. I went to sleep around 9 PM. I never drank enough for a hangover (ok I'm exaggerating that point a bit for affect but please allow it for the overall structure of my story). And, as the ultimate mark of a wellness vacation, on my final night I reserved a 50-minute Heavenly massage at the Westin Spa. At a $150 dollar charge, this was exactly the kind of experience I'd dreamed of so many days ago. It was grown up and relaxing and would recharge my soul. By Heavenly, I fully expected I would be set on the wings of an angel while a batch of cloud-virgins danced upon my back with feet made of mist and childish joy.

Moments upon arriving at the beach-front parlor, the concierge brought me into a plush locker room, where I changed into the acupuncture sandals and expensive robe. She told me to spend ten minutes unwinding before the massage: Enjoy some pineapple-infused water. Loosen up in the steam room. Shower in the dual-headed stone showers. Try the exotic fragrances and lotions. Shave. Listen to music. Relax, relax, relax.

When ready, I was to go into the waiting room where my masseuse would come for me.

After ten minutes, I had achieved the calm preparation needed to enjoy my massage.

I nearly made it out to the waiting room, before realizing my boxers were still on underneath my robe. Hmmm. My inexperience was showing: Do you leave your boxers on during a full body massage? Or are you naked? What if you are supposed to be naked and then the female masseuse says, "Um, douche bag, your danky boxers are on?" But then again, what if you are naked and she says, "You pig! This isn't a fucking whore house!"

I was paralyzed by indecision. This was critical. Fuck! How could I be so clueless at 33-years-old? Do you take your boxers off during a massage? Or leave them on? Where are all of your fuckers when I need you (by "fuckers" i lovingly mean the two of you who still read my blog, Kohli and Kenta)

After five minutes of doubt, I decided to compromise. I would keep my boxers on, covered by the robe, until I reaching the massage room itself. At that point, I would evaluate the situation and make the final call.

Within seconds of stepping into the waiting room, a thirty-year-old woman clothed in all-white entered and ushered me up a set of stairs and down a hallway. She brought me into a small, gently-lit room filled with sounds of meditative music (basically a flute and bagpipe playing at 1/4 tempo). In the center of the room was a massage table covered in five layers of crisp white sheets. She told me to get undressed and get under the covers.

"I'll wait outside", she said, "and knock before entering."

Well, here it was. She said, "Get undressed." So that means, be naked and get under the covers, right? That's what "get undressed" must mean, right? Although, on second thought, maybe she just meant take off your robe and get under the covers with your boxers. Shit. What should i do? What is protocol here? I wish I were a well-tanned, old golfer executive type from Phoenix, who got lots of massages and knew exactly what to do in this situation.

I took my robe off an hung it. Then I started getting under the covers of the massage table with my boxers on. Then I crawled back out and stood up, confused ... Then I took my boxers off ... Then I put them back on .. Then I took them off again ... Then SHIT! Bitch, you said you would knock!

Well, she didn't. There I was, naked as shit, my 18-inches hanging out. And there she was, staring. After a few seconds of silence, where I was frozen like a mouse who just got caught gnawing on a piece of cheese in your kitchen, I spoke.

"Umm, whoops. Sorry, um, I was, um ..."

"I'm so sorry," she said, "If you could just ... get under the covers."

So she closed the door quickly. Red-faced, I got under the covers, sans boxers. The decision was made by fate. She's seen me naked, so it can't matter any more. A few moments later, she knocked, and I told her, "Ok .. you can come in."

She knocked again.

I said, "I'm good! You can come in!"

She kept knocking.

"OK! I'm all good! I'm ready."

She still knocked.

I said nothing.

She finally came in, and, without words, began my heavenly massage.

50-minutes later, I was confident I had made the right decision. When getting a Heavenly massage at a Westin Resort, naked is the way to go.