St. Valentine’s Day Massage: I swear, if HMO’s paid for massages like this one, they’d save three times as much from the reduction of any and all stress-related disorders.

I made the reservation in January in anticipation of another Valentine’s Day as a single, and even the perky-sounding young woman who took my reservation thought it was a great idea (as I signed in these three weeks later, a perky-looking young blonde looked up from some other task when she heard my name—I guess she remembered our conversation) for a single chick to treat herself to a massage on Hell Day for Spinsters (okay, I made that phrase up just now).

I don’t know, but the space looked/felt like it might once have been a doctor’s office; overlay that with spare, clean, pseudo-Japanese furnishings; and then throw a couple of cushy Indian-ish pillows. Maybe a purist somewhere is screaming, but it worked for me. All my favorite chill-out cultures in one spa.

Now, it’s been over a year since I last put myself through the extreme demands of a ballet class, so as I slid under the blankets in the massage room, I realized that I didn’t have any knots, aches, or pains to be worked out. You know when you go to a great restaurant and you make nutritionally conscious choices for the entrée and it’s delicious and satisfying and you feel smug about yourself when it’s done? That’s what I felt like when I left the house. And as I settled my face into the cradle, I thought: Dessert. This is going to be pure pleasure, I thought.

I was right. A massage is a whole new narcotic when there is no pain to be relieved, no blockage to be released, nothing to be remedied or therapy-ed (therapy-ed? If you know the real word for what I mean, please tell me, I’d love to learn). I laid down feeling great and well rested. So, the massage was like… like… you know how your mouth feels when you take that first spoonful of a deep, dark chocolate mousse, not too sweet, and velvety on the tongue? Well, that’s what every every muscle in my body felt like at the end of the hour (and 15 minutes—doncha love it when your masseur runs overtime?)

Am I the only person who falls a teeny bit in love with my masseur du jour? (I also fall a teensy bit in love with my mani/pedicurist du jour, but that’s a different day spa.) Especially when he’s a broad-shouldered man who compliments me on my perfectly-developed, smooth muscles, and how I respond to the subtlest adjustments (“Aw, I bet you say that to all the girls…”).

exhale. My new favorite day spa.