Going to a spa, in any context, is not considered a manly activity. It doesn’t matter if you’re getting a massage for a weightlifting injury, or trying to bang the manicurist, the minute you tell anyone you’re going to a spa, you get laughter, pointing, and the universal hand signal for, “You have huge breasts.”

Such was the response I often got from my friends and family when I told them that, prior to my friend’s wedding, he and I were going to a spa for a bit of R & R. Some people even went so far as to ask, “Are you going to order the happy ending?” to which I responded, in mock confusion, “What? Like, the sundae at Friendly’s?”

In the proper tradition of passing the buck, I’ll say that it was originally his idea (which, going back even further, was probably his fiancée’s idea). Honestly though, I liked the sound of it, so I said yes without any arm twisting... or hesitation for that matter.

The place was neat enough; a clean and stylish looking salon graced the upper floor, while a clinical-looking yet rainforest-themed downstairs area housed the mani-/pedi-cure areas, salt showers, and massage rooms (“pedicure,” I just added a hyphen, it’s not some bizarre sexual thing).

My friend and I sat on plush couches in a small lounge that was decked out in a Swiss Family Robinson motif (where you were surrounded by paintings and decorations that made you feel like you were in a jungle, but still had the luxury of sun chairs and an FM radio).

First came the manicure. We were ushered into the manicure… room… place… by a pair of women; let’s call them “Hot,” and “Not.” “Hot” sat me down across the table from her and my friend took a similar position across from “Not.” Though it was the weekend of his wedding, I’m sure he could tell that right off the bat that I had the advantage here.

What followed was a pleasant half-hour of buffing, oiling, massaging, and exfoliating, all below the wrist. I say buffing, oiling, massaging, and exfoliating, but I really don’t know what order they happened in. At any given time, I was completely unaware of what this woman was chipping away at my nails for, or what substance she was rubbing into my palms. I like to verify my manliness by saying that all I know about all the gels and creams on the table was that none of them was motor oil.

Conversation was light during the process. I tried making small talk with, “Hot,” while “Not,” tried to make small talk with my friend. Occasionally I felt the need to turn to my friend and say, “So, how about those Patriots?” or “That reminds me, I gotta take a look at my transmission.”

The process reached a climax of weirdness when my hands, buffed and oiled and massaged, were inserted into two plastic bags which, in turn, were inserted into two heated oven mitts. “Hot,” finished early and walked briefly into the next room. When the smell from someone’s lunch wafted in through the door, I was certain it was the smell of my hands being properly baked. I peeked inside the oven mitts to see if they were a golden brown yet. Not quite.

In the end, my friend would complain that he did not get as thorough a manicure as I did. I could have told him that when I heard “Not,” continuing to make small talk say, “This is my second to last day here, I’m going to work at another spa.” A dead silence filled the air. How the hell do you respond to that? What could you ask her if you don’t want to hear the answer? Sure, she could be leaving because she had to relocate or something, but do you really want to risk starting a conversation that could end with, “The people who are about to give you a massage are rotten bastards.”?

Regardless, the conversation went back to manicures when “Hot,” came back into the room and took off my oven mitts. I told her how I thought the smell of food coming from the other room was my hands. She didn’t even smile, just a short exhale through the nose, meaning either a tiny, stifled chuckle, or she had a boogie.

Our nails sparkling, we went back to the Swiss Family Lounge and sat back down, clumsily checking our cell phones and flipping through magazines without touching our newly buffed nails.

We were then instructed to change into the provided bath robes and slippers which, I can only guess, were fitted for Micky Mouse. Even with size 12 feet (or 13, depending on who's asking ;-), my slippers clopped on the floor like scuba flippers.

We were then directed to private rooms for the salt scrub. I never saw who my friend left with, but my attendee was… let’s call her, “Not Sr.” Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing ugly about her, but she was much older, and certainly not of the caliber of the young, attractive girls I had seen traversing the hallways. Besides, these procedures had nothing to do with the attractiveness of your host, but their skill. Having a hot chick rub you down was just an added benefit.

The salt scrub was… unique. Another “exfoliating,” procedure, the salt scrub takes off up to four layers of dead skin. I’m willing to wager I lost seven. I was initially rubbed down with oil, which was pleasant. I was then assaulted with an oil-salt mixture that felt like this woman was attacking me with a belt sander. I kept looking at her hands, wondering if she had switched from using a fine powder to winter road salt.

To answer what I’m sure is a burning question in everyone’s mind, no. I was not completely naked. The important parts were covered by a towel. No salt was applied to my buttocks or man-region which, as I’m sure you can guess, was a huge relief. I was comfortable though. These people are professionals.

I was then hosed down and left alone under a series of showerheads spraying warm water. I’m told that some people enjoy lying under those shower heads for up to a half hour. I was there for about two minutes before I started thinking, “Um… this is nice and all, but I can do this at home.” My attendant returned a few minutes later and turned off the water. When she left I re-robed and moved into the massage booth.

I suppose by keeping track of who had the hot attendant, I cursed myself. Scratch that. I cursed myself before we walked into the spa when I said, “With my luck I probably won’t get a hot masseuse. I bet I’ll get a dude.”

In walked David, my masseuse.

Now, as I said, looks have nothing to do with this. David is a skilled and strong-handed masseuse. He knew what he was doing, and it felt good.

Note to self: Cross, “He knew what he was doing, and it felt good,” off my list of things I’ll never say in my life.

I didn't feel like a new man afterwards, but I felt pretty good. I got dressed and waited for my friend, who was finished shortly after me. Then he and I chatted as I settled the bill (I decided I would treat him, as part of my wedding gift). I asked him what his masseuse looked like.

“She was pretty hot,” he said, with the casual disinterest you’d only hear from a married man. “I had the same girl for the salt scrub and the massage, so we had a chance to chat and be comfortable.”

I told him about David.

“David?” he said between bouts of suppressed laughter. “You got his name? Did you get his phone number too?”

“Of course,” I said. “After what went on in that room, I had to invite him to the wedding.”

We both laughed that time. I laughed louder because I really wanted the beautiful young girl at the counter to know I was joking.