A Massage and George Clooney

Friday, to mark the end of "hell week," a colleague and I got massages at the hotel spa where we were staying. When asked, I told the masseuse when my last massage was, but as I lay there on the table, I began to do calendar math and realized it was actually another, similar, work-related occasion. Time somehow has twisted itself around, because it took me quite a long time to assure myself that it was on that trip, and not on another business trip, or, as I had carried in my head for some time now, in a more exotic locale on vacation.

And then, we set out for home. She drove me to the ferry near her home in NJ, and I rode back to Manhattan, against the flow of commuters, and then hopped into a cab across the Brooklyn Bridge and home. It was fast and uneventful. Home, ready for bed, a great night's sleep and a deservedly lazy Saturday. Ahhhh...

Saturday was to be for only things I wanted to do, not things I needed to do. I even went to see "Michael Clayton" in the early afternoon, but managed to doze off a couple of times during the movie. I can't believe I was that tired still, but there I was, sitting quietly, closing my eyes softly, and half-dreaming about things that only slightly resembled what was on screen at the time. I don't think I missed anything important in the film, or at least I understood most of what had happened near the end, but it was strange. I managed to pull myself awake (shifting in the seat to another position, swallowing another big gulp of Diet Coke) and made it to the end of the movie without another relapse.

The movie was good, although a bit formulaic for me. (Bad corporation, single piece of damning evidence, over-the-top cover-up, imperfect hero with secret vice and cute child), but well acted, especially by George Clooney. I agree with the suggestion that this used to be the kind of film you'd see starring Robert Redford, etc. (I submit Harrison Ford) and that Clooney brought a level of talent to it that most of those others (again, I offer Harrison Ford) would not. But I think that's what stops me from fully loving the movie - it's more like a Harrison Ford movie than a "Syriana" or a "Good Night and Good Luck."

Or maybe I really did miss something when I dozed off.

At the Spa

I am just 90 minutes post-massage. I'm sorry, did that come out of the blue? I'm in Miami for a work-thing - a conference that eats up my three day weekend, but in return, plops me down in the middle of a first class resort and spa. Yes, there are meetings and breakout sessions and boring spells of standing in our booth making cheery small talk with strangers, but it's also in a really really really nice place. I got here, checked the exhibit hall to make sure the booth had arrived and was set up, opened some boxes (killed my manicure, too - thank god I'm in a spa - but seriously? I can't fathom spending $35 on a manicure here when you can get a great one for $8.50 in Brooklyn), sat outside and had a nice grouper sandwich with fries, had a massage, and now am sitting in my room waiting for co-workers to call to confirm dinner plans. I am really relaxed and feeling fine.

The spa is huge - this stone building up a long fountain-laced walk, with hundreds of "treatments" from massage to facial to body scrub to exercise. They shepherd you into a gender-specific locker/waiting room, and give you a locker key and robe and slippers. There was something very eerie about sitting around in a room of overstuffed chairs with a bunch of other women all in long white robes and green flip-flps. Like we were waiting to be Stepford-ized or something.

The masseuse said he could feel heat still coming off my ankle, which means it's not healed. He was really gentle with it. I feel like I should take a shower before dinner, but I am liking the soft oily feeling of my skin. We'll see how much time I have between when I get the dinner call and when we are meeting.

I hear there is supposed to be snow this weekend in NYC.