I love the Korean Day Spa in LA – it’s affordable, relaxing, totally-nude fun! I especially love the unabashed nakedness because it forces you to just get over yourself already, and walk amidst a myriad of other less-than-perfect bodies of other less-than-dressed women without any place to possibly hide your “I just know I’m the only woman in the world who has hideous fill-in-the-blank(s)” anxieties… Instead, you are forced to accept the many boobs and thighs and asses in your proximity as living proof that women are not all designed to look like super models – not even in LA, where the Korean Day Spa attracts oodles and boodles of aspiring etceteras on a daily basis.
No, here all women are the same: flesh to be pummeled into a relaxed state of bliss by tough Korean masseurs wearing just their own bras and panties.
But beyond general enthusiasm for the “All of us are in this together” vibe and self-image-liberating experience this spa provides, I’ve recently found myself haunted by images of the spa standard: Elder Korean women sitting at the spa’s water trough, scrubbing down even the most delicate areas of themselves with nary a thought to the fact that there are no signs posted anywhere that read “Customers MUST scrub the hell out of their vaginas at the trough”.
I’ve been thinking about these women of NO fear because for the last 8 days, our new apartment has been sans a functioning shower head and I’ve found myself hunkered down in the as-yet-un-resurfaced tub, splashing and scrubbing away at my armpits and sensitive spots just like one of those little old Korean woman at the spa.
I’m really really starting to wonder if it will ever get fixed.
Not that I mind splashy baths – I have, of course, by now scrubbed that tub so hard that there’s naught but ceramic and my own sweat and tears left to cradle my naked ass, therefore affording me full bath privileges above and beyond the sit and squat method I had to employ before we were FINALLY able to locate and unpack the cleaning supplies two days after move-in.
But baths have become treats to be doled out after long strenuous days. They come with wine and candles and that old (but oh-so-relaxing) Enya cd that you’ve been listening to in the tub for over a decade.
A hurried bath in the morning before you head out into the world just isn’t as refreshing or soothing as a real shower or bath should be.
Plus it’s harder to rinse all that shampoo and stuff out of your hair with a plastic cup from Harkins Theatre.