My wife and I got facials. (The spa kind, not the money shot kind.) I've done some relaxing pampering stuff before, like massages. But if I get a massage, I use a Groupon deal, because yep, I'm that guy. I'm not ashamed. Besides, those massages usually happen in shady strip malls where I might wake up in a bathtub with my kidneys removed, but my shoulders are tension-free so I can't complain.
It doesn't help that these places have a vague aura of spending expectation which makes being cheap on their property seem like an offense that can get me escorted from the premises by large men with no fingerprints and a solid alibi. Every time I order the cheapest thing on the menu after mulling it over for ten minutes, I feel like my waiter knows. They know I didn't order the one-ounce steak because it's what my heart wanted; I ordered it because if I got anything else, I'd have to perform disturbing sexual favors on the line cooks if I ever wanted to leave the restaurant. I had my eye on the 50-ounce Australian tomahawk ribeye. I was scared off when I saw the letters MP instead of a price. It stands for "market price," but functions as a warning: "If you have to ask how much it is, you can't afford it."
I asked. It was $150 -- roughly the same amount it cost to clean my shit out of their chairs when I heard that number.
It's Amazing How Quickly You Get Assimilated
Four hours. That's all it took for me to go from overwhelmed to whining that on my second sauna session, the smell of the eucalyptus-infused steam wasn't as potent as the first. "Boo! This carafe of complimentary citrus-infused water isn't as refreshing as that carafe of complimentary mint-and-cucumber-infused water! Why is my life so hard?"
There's no extreme that we can't get used to, no matter how powerful the initial shock. Being treated like a king with full prima nocta privileges is one of the easiest things to get used to. Luxury quickly sets a high bar of stimulation. Once I adjusted and accepted all this as real, the whining commenced. And guys, it's so much fun to complain about wanting things to be better when they're already incredible. It's me yelling up at the hotel facade daring it to be more spectacular -- then I make clucking sounds to insinuate that it's too chicken to further impress me.
I'll never get to experience that higher standard, because I may never get the chance to write a bestselling series of erotic novels staring a thinly veiled version of myself with a penis as long as an above-ground pool is wide. But I'll settle for being able to complain.
If I had seen gold-plated cyborg parking attendants which dispensed claim tickets from their chests when I valeted my car, I'd think it was a disturbing case of man trying to play god. By the time I pick up my car, I'd be talking shit about the lackluster performance of its confetti-firing nipples. "Oh, it was a fine sendoff, and the performance of 'So Long, Farewell' from The Sound Of Music was appreciated. But the confetti didn't fire from the nipples with the appropriate exuberance my departure deserves. Those babies should pop like the night sky on the Fourth of July. Four stars."
Luis is clapping his hands and shouting "Waiter!" But no one's coming. And they never will. In the meantime, you can find him on Twitter, Tumblr, and Facebook.
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There are angels, and they are not beneficent or loving. Check out the first two books in Robert Brockway's Vicious Circuit series, and pre-order the third, Kill All Angels, available December 26th.