Real Housewives of Goa

I have completed five days of ayurvedic treatment, including six straight days of ayurvedic massage. By day four my doctor had herself gotten sick. I no longer had an accumulating relationship with an ayurvedic specialist to gauge my day to day health in response to the time spent at the clinic. When those consultations ended, the massage treatments took on less purpose in my mind. Every day prior my doctor would explain the reasoning for the day's customized routine. Once that was lost, my facade of positive thinking was replaced with my deep seeded New York-esque impatience.

I've explained previously that the ayurvedic massage is not my proverbial jam. And after 2.5 hours a day, on the fifth day I had what a middle school teacher might refer to as 'ants in my pants.' And since I wasn't wearing pants, I just got straight up pissed.

And on this fifth day, I kept note of the little things that pissed me off:

• My shins were raw from combination sun exposure and being rubbed mercilously over the course of the week.
  
• Daily I acrrued a new batch of mosquito bites to be irritated by this dude's callous hands.
• I only had one masseuse today instead of the usual two. What am I, an untouchable? (That's a caste system joke for all you fellow Indophiles out there)
• Have you ever had someone massage your stomach? It's obnoxious. And today I had to pee, so every time that fucking guy pressed on my abdomen I wanted to slap him in the face and take his sister out to a nice dinner.
• Due to the cyclone off the coast of Goa, gale force winds were tearing through the window, blowing wide open the curtain separating my bare paper thonged ass from the rest of the clinic. Actually, that one was hilarious.
• I was in a different room than usual, and when I tried to sit in the steam box (read: medieval stocks) it was a physically impossible fit. So the masseuse simply slide the seat down. For four days they crammed me into this box, banging my knees on the door and forcing my torso into an awkward hunched formation. Today he decides to lower the seat.

As I sat in the sweat stocks with a man on hand to do nothing but dab my misty forehead and massage my scalp if requested, it dawned on me. This must be why the Real Housewives of reality television fame are nuts. When a form of pampering becomes a routine - an entitlement - it's easy to complain that the man you hired to wipe your ass hasn't cut his fingernails. And to forget that you're in a position to hire a man to wipe your ass. Which, by the way, I highly recommend.

So on my last day, I went in to my massage calm and composed, and it was super. Because it was my last day I was given a hot oil bath. Laying on a slanted wooden board, they pour hot oil over you and massage it into your skin. My favorite part was when I had to turn over. It was like a slip n' slide with spotters and a paper thong.

At first I was unequal parts relaxed and concerned of the possible scalding of my reproductive organs. But eventually I relaxed, and once again sought solace in Slippery Superman's next great adventure - his showdown with the arch nemesis of any pro-slip spiritual agent of justice - The Succubus Shaman Stay-Put Non-Slip Shower Mat Man.

(2.5 hours is a really long time)