My husband, Ronnie, a Sports Illustrated photographer, was setting up for a shoot at the Chicago Cubs spring training stadium in Mesa, Ariz., while I sat nearby, wavering between a Thermal Moor Mud Wrap or the Serenity Seaweed Scrub. After finding out we would be visiting Arizona from our home in Wisconsin, I had immediately sent for a brochure from The Phoenician, a resort tucked below Scottsdale’s Camelback Mountain, and was just now selecting my treatments from its world-class spa.
But as Ronnie looked up from where he was lying on his stomach in the dirt, surrounded by the industrial-sized equipment cases that he lugs through airports, a thought occurred to me: There’s someone who needs a good rubdown.
Ronnie is 50 but looks 40. Really, he should look 60. He mistreats himself. He bounds out of bed, swigs two jumbo cups of coffee, skips breakfast, then goes running. He doesn’t stretch. He doesn’t take vitamins. He doesn’t drink plenty of water. He doesn’t wear sunscreen.
When he lifts cumbersome camera gear, he forgets to use his legs, not his back. When I ask, “Want a back rub?” he answers, “Maybe later.” If he relaxes at all, it’s post-work with consecutive green bottles of imported beer.
So when I decided to make spa appointments for both of us on that sunny February afternoon, at first, Ronnie protested: “I’m not the spa type.”
True. Bowhunting camp is more his style. But I was determined. I scheduled him for a shiatsu massage and a Gentleman’s Facial.
The facial was the hardest sell. Like most guys, Ronnie was reluctant to do something that would make him look silly or be perceived as feminine. But two guys he knew had come clean about having facials. Doug, a 51-year-old Milwaukee restaurateur, gave a glowing report: “Oh, man, I loved it!” Jonathan, a 40-something fellow sports photographer from Chicago, got his facial as a gift from his wife. “It was awesome, man!” he said.
So, Ronnie agreed to spend an afternoon attempting to relax. . . .
– – –
After changing into fluffy, terry cloth robes and rubber sandals, we meet in the meditation chamber. A leader talks people through a visualization exercise. We climb into comfortable recliners and join in. Well, I do, anyway. I open my eyes once to see Ronnie looking at me with his eyes wide open.
“I don’t see the star,” Ronnie says.
Massage therapist Greg Merrill collects us from the meditation chamber and leads the way to the treatment room. Ronnie pulls the hood of his fluffy terry cloth robe up over his head and follows along, shadow-boxing Rocky Balboa style.
Greg says The Phoenician offers many types of massages, but shiatsu is his favorite. “It’s a good amount of pressure, with a little bit of everything,” he says.
In shiatsu, no oil is used, so clients may stay clothed. But most people undress for the skin-to-skin contact, as Ronnie agrees to do.
“I’ll step out while you disrobe,” Greg says.
Too late. Ronnie is already standing in his underwear.
“Hop on the table, boss?” Ronnie asks.
“Absolutely,” Greg says with a laugh.
Greg drapes a sheet over Ronnie’s lower half, then positions himself in a solid, wide straddle with his hands crossed and flexed. He begins pressing on Ronnie’s back while new-age music plays.
Ronnie looks over his shoulder and asks, “Am I supposed to be doing something?” “Relax,” Greg says. “Did you do any deep breathing in the meditation class?”
“No,” Ronnie says. (Even though we did). “We were looking for stars. I didn’t see any, though.”
Greg begins pressing on Ronnie’s right shoulder. “Whoa!” Ronnie rears up. “I just saw the stars!”
Greg stops pressing and starts rotating Ronnie’s arm in a circular motion. Then he puts his hand in his armpit and presses down.
“Man!” Ronnie says, “That feels pretty good!”
Greg finishes up with a chopping motion down Ronnie’s back. He puts his hand on Ronnie’s shoulder. “OK,” he says. Ronnie doesn’t move. Finally, he opens one eye. “Already?” he asks.
Aesthetician Marcella Hughes leads Ronnie into her treatment room for his Gentleman’s Facial. “I’ll take a Clint Eastwood face,” Ronnie says. “And cucumbers!”
“We don’t use produce,” Marcella says. (Too hard to keep fresh.) “But we’ve got a great soothing eye gel.”
Ronnie giggles while Marcella begins examining his face through her swing-armed magnifying glass.
“Your skin is a little clogged,” she says. “Blackheads?” Ronnie asks sheepishly. “Everybody has got blackheads,” she says.
Marcella says Ronnie is slightly dehydrated from the Arizona sun, but the news is mostly good: Men’s skin tends to have more oils naturally and they exfoliate when shaving.
She begins cleansing using soft cloths dipped in French botanical lotion. She then places two round cotton pads on his eyes.
“Ah! My cucumbers!” he says.
Marcella smiles and flips a switch. Hot, wet steam blows on Ronnie’s face.
Meanwhile, Marcella massages his hands with lotion. She then covers his hands with plastic bags, topping them with green hot mitts. Then, she swings the magnifying mirror back over his face. Holding a tissue in each hand, she puts two rubber thimbles on each index finger and proceeds to squeeze the pores around Ronnie’s nose. The technical term for this: extracting.
“Whoa!” Ronnie sniffles. “I think I just found my lost youth.”
Next, Marcella mixes plant extract, propylus and lavender in a bowl. She uses a spatula to spread the gloppy blue mixture in broad strokes on Ronnie’s face.
Ronnie says it feels cool after the sting of the extractions. When the mask dries, Marcella lifts it off and gives it to Ronnie. “Hmmm,” he says. “Maybe I should mount this on some driftwood.”
Forget the mask. I can’t keep my hands off his baby-soft face.
– – –
Back at home in Wisconsin: Ronnie is going through mail. I catch him reading a brochure from a Chicago day spa.
“Hot rocks therapy,” he says. “What do you think?”
“I think we need to see if the Cubs or the White Sox are playing at home this weekend.”
