The first time I went to THE Bathhouse in Las Vegas, needless to say, I was freaked out. Here's what I wrote in my blog at the time:
"I go to The Bathhouse for a massage (no, not THAT kind of massage, sheesh) in their lovely spa. I had been panicking about robes, because you had to be naked and I didn't want a wardrobe malfunction if their robes were not of the generous type, so I hauled my robe to Vegas for just this reason, but when I get to the spa, they have a lovely robe that makes mine look like it is made from burlap. So all is well. After my lovely massage, I am so blissed out that I even have the fortitude to swim in their gigantic 50-foot long whirlpool with the entire wall devoted to rain striking imported slate. And I do this naked. With other naked women. Who are naked. And can see my naked. You've come a long way, baby."Look at all the bravado! You can barely tell how terrifying it all was, how I skirted around the slate halls, quiet as a terry-covered ninja, checking to see if anyone was in the plunge pool or the big whirlpool before disrobing, and then being kind of stuck in one because I was feeling too weird to jump out when 14 people suddenly popped out of nowhere and there were 28 eyes and 28 nipples all staring out at my body. But I got over it, due mostly to the fact that the people at THE Bathhouse? They are my people. Sure, there are some perfect, flawless creatures, but there are also a lot of 60-year-old women, and a lot of girls who might be classified as "thick." Unlike Qua (attached to Caesar's Palace), which is populated by a reunion of the girls on My Super Sweet Sixteen, or the spa at the Wynn, where a dozen Dina Lohan clones are sulking because there are unnecessary carbs in the diluted cranberry water.
I have a tradition of spending the morning of my birthday at a spa, and since I knew I would be in Vegas this year, there was only one spa that would do. I woke up early, gave Esteban a kiss, sashayed out to pick up the rental from the valet, and then headed out. When I arrived, I found an unsatisfactory robe in my locker. The tag said 3X but it was more like a 1X. It could get around my curves, of course, but not comfortably, and any sudden movements would cause me to be breaking the laws of several Southern states. Also, it's hard to relax when you can feel a breeze up the hoo-ha, you know?
I flagged down a Bathhouse attendant, an adorable perfect little blonde named Andi, and said, "I'm sorry, I know this is a 3x, but it doesn't work for me. I know that you have larger robes, perhaps on the Men's side of the spa. Could you get me a bigger one, like a 5x or something?" It is difficult to have that discussion with dignity, let me tell you, but I was bolstered by the knowledge that damn it, they had robes that fit and I refused to allow myself to be stymied in the one spa in which I felt comfortable in my own skin.
Andi's eyes got big and she touched my shoulder. "Oh, these are the old robes. I'm so sorry they gave you a locker that still had one. We got new ones that are much better. They're bigger and longer!" She returned with another 3x, this one brighter and fluffier. "This will work. I promise." I must have looked concerned but she shook her head and said "You are NOT a size 5x woman, trust me." I know that I'm not a 5x in reality sizing, but in Vegas sizing, with all of those perfect people around, who knows? She handed it to me and disappeared once more. I ditched the clothes and swathed myself in the robe and she was right, it was perfect.
I went to my herbal wrap with a very teeny, tiny aesthetician who seemed a little distant, as though the idea of rubbing down my cellulite for the next 50 minutes was causing her to hate life, but I pushed away the notions of what she might have been thinking and tried to be Zen and enjoy my services. After all, unless she actually came out and said something, who was I to guess what she was thinking? She might have been having a bad day. She might have been simply an unhappy person. I had no control over her thoughts and emotions when I walked into her room, so I decided that I shouldn't let it affect me. In retrospect, it was a good thing that I pushed away the negative emotions, because it took a lot of self-confidence to lie naked on a plastic-covered table and cover myself with a bath towel that barely did the job. After it was done, I had to walk through the quiet lounge and the locker room, including through a brief opening that was visible from a similar hall in the men's spa, to the lockers to wash off my various gels and ablutions, but I couldn't put my robe back on, because I was covered in goop. The aesthetician handed me a towel and exited the room. Needless to say, the single towel would work splendidly for someone who was size 10 or less, but me? No way. I improvised, wrapping the modesty towel around my backside, and then wrapping the second towel around my front, pinning both loose ends under my arms. If you were looking at me from either side, it just looked like a single towel. Score!
She then led me through the spa towards the showers. I was naked and slithery, covered in potions and herbs, my thighs bright red from a cellulite scrub, my hair sticking out everywhere from the scalp massage, and you know what? It was okay. I wasn't braced with self-doubt or -loathing or, more importantly, feeling like I had to apologize to anyone for the audacity of being fat. I was aware not of the size of my hips but rather that I was taller than everyone, that my skin was pale and my boobs looked awesome and that the low light of the inner sanctum was hitting the gel on my pale skin just perfectly, making it seem as if I were casting out my own light. I may have only been wearing a few towels, but I felt complete.
After showering, I put my robe back on and waited for my second treatment, which was a mud bath. Andi, as it turned out, was my bath attendant, and lead me to my private room where a long deep soaking tub was already prepared with a dark chocolate miasma of incredible-smelling water. I'd had the mud bath once before, and love it because it makes my skin amazingly soft, so I already knew the drill. Andi let me know that normally the baths are 25 minutes long, but since I was the only bath of the day, I could soak in that tub all day if I wanted to. I hopped into the hot water and then watched as my body disappeared under the opaque liquid. How did you spend your time when you used to take those long baths as a kid? I didn't have a toy boat, a rubber ducky, or even a magazine. Just a pot of lavender Earl Grey and the tips of my knees and the tops of my boobs bobbing out of the water. Even still, 20 minutes passed like that. I could feel my skin starting to go silky in the therapeutic mud, began to lavish in the swirling waters, performed elaborate ballet poses that were hidden under the murky surface. I had one delicious moment of disconnect when I poured my second cup of tea and realized that it had steeped to match exactly the color and temperature of my bathwater (although I know from experience that the mud water was salty and definitely nothing you'd want to drink) and it brought to mind those old cartoons in which people would swim in giant pools of champagne and then dip their cups to drink.
When I finally got out of the water and took a quick shower, I felt stronger, somehow, more self-assured. I had a lunch date at Bouchon with my bff, so no soaking in the giant hot tub or detoxing in the steam room for me, but I wasn't quite ready to get dressed and walk out into the desert heat. Instead, I wrapped up in my robe and walked back to the quiet lounge to reflect. Andi checked on me again and I thanked her for helping to make my spa appointment so lovely, but really, what I wanted to say was, "Thank you not only for treating me with kindness when I asked for a different robe, but also for not making it seem like it was my fault."
Later, as I was doing my makeup at the vanity, Andi stopped by on her way out to lunch and I broke my usual form of Internet incognito and told her that I'd be writing about this appointment, and her, on Elastic Waist, and she told me that she also feels weird because even though she's now a size 2, some people give her a hard time, as though she can't understand struggling with body image or weight issues. What they don't know, she revealed, is that she wasn't always a size 2, but used to weigh 95 pounds more than she does now. Which is pretty much exactly why Elastic Waist can't be slotted into any category. It's not a fat girl site. It's not a weight loss site. It's not a gossip blog. We're all struggling with different issues, and while it's easy for us to roll our eyes when Kate Beckinsale or Sarah Silverman talks about her body dysmorphia, we're all walking around with different brands of the same damage. We're all in this together. It's not us against them. It's all of us. Together. Which is something that people like Rian and the other female gossip bloggers just don't get.
I had noticed that over the last year, my ballyhooed self-confidence had been waning. I didn't know why. I still don't. Later that evening, as I stomped my way through a club into the VIP section like I owned the place, I felt a little bit more like myself. Happy in my skin, not caring that my shoes (a last minute switch due to blisters) didn't quite match the dress. There is a reason that baptism involves a ritual cleansing, and on my birthday, I found myself again.
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