The horrendous things I have to do for this blog, eh.
Tonight I headed up to Dyanna Spa on 21st Street for a hot stone massage. I’ve long seen adverts for the treatment and, because of the pictures accompanying them, I assumed I’d be laying with rocks carefully placed on my back as I smiled serenely and looked perfectly groomed:
But I quickly learned that they don’t just place the heated stones on your body – they use them to massage you (is it silly that I didn’t know that?). To be honest, I hadn’t been sure what to expect from the overall experience; the only massage I’ve ever had came from a squat, red-faced man named Don who wheezed every time he kneaded me at a rather questionable spa in Joshua Tree, California.
Unsurprisingly, this one was a vast improvement.
My Dyanna masseuse, Alia, led me to a dimly lit room, where I undressed and laid on the table as beach sounds played in the background. She started off by massaging my legs and back, which was great until she went for my feet and I thought I was going to kick her in the face out of reflex.
After around 10 minutes, she retrieved the large, smooth stones from a water heater and repeated the massage. At first they were hot, but I soon eased into it and they felt deliciously warm, as if I were in a bath. And surprisingly, they barely lost their heat.
When she moved to my legs, she left two stones on top of my kidneys. I couldn’t help but think this treatment would be perfect if you were on thattimeofthemonth and aching accordingly.
It was bliss – Alia was firm but not too heavy-handed, and the warmth of the stones was so comforting. And she got to see a bit of side boob, so everyone was a winner.
Eventually she softly announced that the time was up, and I was so relaxed I could barely open my eyes. When I did, I realised I’d be parading some impressive face creases (courtesy of the face hole) around town.
What a luxury. Shame it’s $40+ for half an hour, or I’d ask Alia to move in.