There’s nothing quite like a spa day. I mean nothing.
The hum of the massage chair greets me like an old friend the moment I sink into it—slowly, like I'm being swallowed by a cloud made of dreams and good decisions. From the top of my head to the curve of my buttocks, it rolls and kneads with just the right amount of pressure. And depending on which spa you go to, it can be spiritual. The kind of massage that has you rethinking life, apologizing to your body for the years of neglect, and forgiving your ex for being trash.
Meanwhile, down below, a technician is working on my lower extremities. And when I say working, I mean working. Her hands glide over my calves, pressing deep into muscles I didn’t know I had, circling the ankles like she’s conjuring some ancient relaxation spell. Then she gets between the toes. And listen—don’t knock it ‘til you try it. There’s a spot between the fourth and fifth toe that holds generational stress. I almost saw my ancestors wave at me.
Eyes closed, I’m in a different world. The kind of peace that makes you forget you got bills due Monday. And just when I’m deep in my “ooh-this-feels-amazing” trance, I hear:
“Color? You pick now.”
Eyes flutter open. A laminated ring of gel polish options is suddenly dangling before me, like a rainbow roulette wheel I’m too chill to spin. The technician’s English is broken but determined, and I’m still trying to figure out if she just said “sky blue” or “snack boo.”
I point to a sparkly turquoise shade and crack a joke. “I want fish designs, like little fish swimming with a water bottom. Like... ‘Finding Nemo,’ spa edition!”
She blinks. Twice. Then looks at me like I just asked her to paint the Mona Lisa on a pinky toe.
I yelp laughing at her face. “It’s okay, it’s okay! Just a simple color’s fine!”
We laugh—well, I laugh, she chuckles nervously—and I realize something: these moments, as silly and ridiculous as they are, matter.
I don’t do this for social media or attention. I do it for the little ones who see me day in and day out. Ten hours a day, six days a week, and yes, sometimes even on weekends. Those kids who think I’m superwoman in sneakers. They see everything—even down to my toes.
And I know what would put a smile on their faces: pink glitter polish with a heart sticker on the big toe. They’d love that.
So when I almost said yes to the whole fish-tank theme, I paused. Because if I couldn’t get it just right—if it couldn’t sparkle with swimming fishies the way I imagined—I didn’t want it half-done. I settled back into the chair, let the dream go, and focused on the present.
I reached for a glass of bubbly, forgetting where I was. Nope. No champagne here. Just a bottle of water and a lonely jar of Dum-Dums on the counter. I sighed. It wasn’t what I wanted, but hey—something is better than nothing. I popped a cherry one into my mouth and let it be sweet enough to fill the gap.
Because here’s the thing: when you give and give and give—when your day is full of tiny humans, behavior plans, routines, meltdowns, giggles, and therapy sessions—you forget. You forget you.
But not today. Today, I remembered. Today was for the me that still wants to sparkle. The me that still laughs at ridiculous nail art and closes her eyes when the massage chair hits just right.
And if no one’s told you lately, let me be the one to say it:
Treat yourself. You’re not being selfish. You’re being sane. You deserve a moment, a pedicure, a polish, a pause. Because even superheroes need spa days.
And if all you walk away with is water and a Dum-Dum?
Well, darling, you still walked away with peace.