I was lying on the massage table at my spa over the weekend, having my troubles and woes kneaded out of my old body, when I realized that something was terribly wrong. My massage therapist was rubbing me just right, the oil was my favorite orange scent, the lights were low, the blanket over my body was pre-warmed, and the candles were flickering, but why was I not enjoying it like I usually do? OMG, there was no music! When I mentioned it, my masseuse apologized profusely and let me know that the system had gone out and would be fixed the next day. I didn’t say much but I couldn’t stop thinking. I was all out of sorts because there were no flutes and violins. No birds chirping, no sounds of the ocean blended with symphonic music. All I could hear was my massage girl breathing heavily as she pummeled my back and the occasional sound of the oil being “farted” out of the plastic bottle. Something inside of me wanted to be irate about not getting my monies worth, but the nice girl that my parents raised kept me from saying a word. I sobered up pretty fast in one terrifying moment when I realized that I could have been born in pioneer times and I would never know the bliss of being pampered at the spa. The only pampering I would have gotten back then was finally getting to sit down after a 14 hour day of spinning yarn, making soap from animal fat, and doing the laundry in a stream.
I laid there and had a silent talk with my inner self. Myself and I talked about how it was not a big deal that there was no music and I felt a little ashamed. I am a lucky girl to live now and push a button to do most anything. The pioneer image kept creeping back in my thoughts and I could only feel grateful for not being chosen to live during that time. Someone must have known that although I am a tough cookie, I would have completely sucked as a pioneer woman.
These ladies had to do everything from scratch. If the family was to have biscuits and butter and jam, they made the biscuits, often over a campfire. I can’t even imagine trying to bake biscuits over an open flame. It’s hard enough to get the dough completely out of the can no matter how exactly I whack the damn tube until it pops. They would churn the butter and make the jam out of berries they grew themselves. Think about it… no gas stoves, no refrigerators with ice and water windows, no dishwashers, no grocery stores. If the poor things actually did get to relax in the evening, they would use the time to mend the clothes or read over candlelight from candles they made themselves. And they did all this and more wearing voluminous skirts to the floor which was de rigueur pioneer chic. And yes, they made these ensembles themselves.
My massage was coming to an end and my masseuse laid her hands ceremoniously on my back to indicate the end of the session. I thanked her, and as she thanked me for being her loyal client, she again apologized for the absence of music. As I told her I barely noticed, a scary vision of me sweeping the floor of my covered wagon with a broom that I fashioned out of pine needles popped into my head. As I quickly pushed that mental image away, I assured her that the massage was perfect.
I get my life lessons from little things and I am changed forever. It is ok to be spoiled, but you need to appreciate it with your entire being. Soooo… if you ever get bratty, just imagine life on the prairie. No air conditioning, no water for a bath, mattresses made from scraps of cloth and chicken feathers, no TV, no iPad. Are you getting it? Good. End of sermon.
