Non-Celebrity Skin

Last Thursday, I joined an overnight planning session with some of the paper’s staffers. There were seven of us who went to a health resort in Tagaytay, and we were joined briefly by another regular writer a few hours later. It was quite enlightening to talk to (and be around) one of the editors I submit my work to, Ma'am Emmie. The others were writers who have bylines every now and then, but they also work behind the scenes at the office. They were nice to hang out with, too, as they shared interesting tidbits about themselves, and of course, other people. It was good to have them together in one place like that.

I soon found out that most of them are health buffs. That was pretty evident from the food they ordered. I hope that their health-conscious ways rub off on me. They loved their veggies and their salad dressing. The other regular contributor who attended was Poch, who turned out to be much younger than I expected, and yes, he’s a vegetarian who closely monitored his blood pressure (he had his testing kit with him). I told him that I always thought of an old, bearded, skinny man when I see his name on his articles. He laughed when I told him that.

Anyway, after some serious discussions about the section’s concerns in the coming months—and the occasional gossip interjection—we got on with the real highlight of the day, which was the body massage. I’ve never had one before, so I didn’t know what to expect. So there I was, freshly bathed. I was told to lie face-down on the table by the lady assigned to me. I had my better-looking underwear on (I was shy, or maybe, modest?), but it didn’t really matter, I guess, ‘cause the masseuse wasn’t really saying anything about articles of clothing. She did tuck the towel under my waistband, when I was on my tummy. Felt a little uncomfortable as she slid the garter down a bit to do that. So I was screaming inside, “Noooo!!!! Stooooppp!!!” Don’t fugging touch my butt crack!”

I kid but, well, to be honest, I’d rather be nekkid on my say-so, and with someone I wanna be nekkid with. Wink. No offense, miss masseuse.

The lady was real professional and good at her job, though; she kneaded, jabbed, and karate-chopped through my flab and, er, muscles. It felt real good. She asked periodically if her new technique felt uncomfortable. I had to stop myself from chuckling when she did get to the more ticklish areas of my body, though. I was biting my lip, my hands clenched, as I tried hard not to laugh out loud. But the experience was good, nevertheless.

The next day, we had facials. Okay, that sounded porny. Whatever. We had different edible stuff on our faces, like honey, crushed almonds, cucumbers, the works. We got scalp massaged, too, which felt quite relaxing. The treatment went back to the face; this time the focus was on my brow. Later, my eyes and upper portion of the face were covered with pipino. I felt a little restless because I wanted to move my head and look around. One of those who brought cameras, Jaycee, took pictures of those covered with slices, of course. After some rubbing, scrubbing and wiping, we were finally free. I didn’t feel anything different, but our editor said that my face was as pink as a baby’s bottom. Poch added that I look like Dan Aykroyd. Heh.

After that, I was dropped off where I could catch a bus en route to the usual jeep terminal. Hello, fumes, dust and heat. The people had to get back to the office to start working on a new issue. Well, they really are on a tight schedule, and they do take their jobs seriously. I’m glad I was invited to be with them for the occasion. I had a great time. I hope to have a picture they took posted next time.

Now, I just need to buy a pore strip for my nose. I don’t think the facial was designed to remove them pesky blackheads and whiteheads, specifically. But that’s okay. I can stare at a removed pore strip for many minutes. It’s just fascinating.