Bright Lights, Big Ass: A Self-Indulgent, Surly, Ex-Sorority Girl's Guide to Why It Often Sucks in the City, or Who Are These Idiots and Why Do They All Live Next Door to Me? by Jen Lancaster
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: Humor, Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Biography, Essay/s, Authors; American, Women, City and Town Life, Form, 21st Century, Chicago (Ill.), Jeanne, Lancaster; Jen, Authors; American - 21st century, Chicago (Ill.) - Social life and customs
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fresh from a mountain stream in a beer commercial cold. Like, “Hello, hypothermia, nice to meet you!” cold. While we wait for the gas servicemen to get around to us, Fletch has been showering at his gym. He told me I could get a temporary membership, but I’m not sure I want to run on a treadmill solely to make it look like I’m not there just to use their shower. Until I take that plunge, 14 I’ve come up with an in-house ablution solution.
I fill the tub halfway with freezing tap water and I let it come up to room temperature. Then I dump in pots of boiling water I’ve heated in the microwave and the electric kettle. The upside is all the heating and pouring makes me feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder in her Little Condo on the Prairie, but the downside is it takes a good two hours of pouring and dumping and I can only get tiny snatches of writing done between boil cycles.
But so far, it’s still better than going to the gym.
The gas man cometh tomorrow, which is good because if I have to fill that goddamned tub one more time, something very bad is going to happen, like me going to a cardio funk class. I haven’t felt fully clean in almost two weeks. Yes, I normally love baths and I take them all the time, but for reasons more literary than hygienic. 15 I will actually shower after sitting in the tub because I hate the idea of rinsing in dirty water. At present, I feel all filmy and oily and I’d be willing to commit a felony for five minutes of hot running water.
I’m almost ready to brave step aerobics when I remember a place on Belmont Ave. Back when I consumed spa services like coffee and Prada bags, I had a bead on every good facility in the city. I’d heard tons of enthusiastic praise about Thousand Waves Spa for Women on Belmont, although I’d never gone. Their specialties were herbal wraps and massages, whereas I was more of a facial and pedicure kind of girl. I never got comfortable with the idea of people touching me and not accomplishing anything (for example, sloughing off excess skin), and now the idea of a massage makes me a bit squeamish. (It goes without saying whatever service I purchased entailed wearing a full set of underwear.)
However, I also remembered this place sold spa passes, and for $20 you got to indulge in their Jacuzzi, redwood sauna, eucalyptus steam room, lockers, beauty products, new age tea, and shower facilities, exactly what I need today. With a quick phone call I verify this information. Confirmed, I shove my swimsuit in a bag, and off I go.
I’m greeted at the door of this Japanese-style spa and leave my shoes next to all the others lined up against the wall. The receptionist talks about how this place is a calm oasis and their goal is to help me relax and find balance. They ask that I respect the other patrons by refraining from cell-phone use and keeping my voice down. “No problem!” I heartily agree before clamping my hand over my too-loud mouth. “Sorry!” I whisper.
I make my way down the long hall and am greeted by the most wonderful fragrances—fruity floral body wash, clean linen-scented candles, tangy, sinus-opening eucalyptus, smoky wood warmed by the sauna, and the chemical bite of the hot tub’s chlorine. To most people, chlorine’s kind of a repulsive smell, but for those of us who spent their summers submerged, it’s as pleasant as a sunny day when your only chore is to lie on a raft until you feel like riding your bike to the pro shop to buy a new Izod. 16
After an extra-soapy preliminary shower, I ease myself into the hundred-and-twenty-degree Jacuzzi, wallowing up to my ears. I bring the book Wicked with me as it’s already misshapen from too many spills into the bath. The Jacuzzi is huge and I’m able to float in the very center, spreading my arms wide, without touching any of the sides. I look like the Vitruvian Man—if he were wearing a pink-and-black Miraclesuit, that is. As the bubbles begin to buffer me against the sides, I feel
I fill the tub halfway with freezing tap water and I let it come up to room temperature. Then I dump in pots of boiling water I’ve heated in the microwave and the electric kettle. The upside is all the heating and pouring makes me feel like Laura Ingalls Wilder in her Little Condo on the Prairie, but the downside is it takes a good two hours of pouring and dumping and I can only get tiny snatches of writing done between boil cycles.
But so far, it’s still better than going to the gym.
The gas man cometh tomorrow, which is good because if I have to fill that goddamned tub one more time, something very bad is going to happen, like me going to a cardio funk class. I haven’t felt fully clean in almost two weeks. Yes, I normally love baths and I take them all the time, but for reasons more literary than hygienic. 15 I will actually shower after sitting in the tub because I hate the idea of rinsing in dirty water. At present, I feel all filmy and oily and I’d be willing to commit a felony for five minutes of hot running water.
I’m almost ready to brave step aerobics when I remember a place on Belmont Ave. Back when I consumed spa services like coffee and Prada bags, I had a bead on every good facility in the city. I’d heard tons of enthusiastic praise about Thousand Waves Spa for Women on Belmont, although I’d never gone. Their specialties were herbal wraps and massages, whereas I was more of a facial and pedicure kind of girl. I never got comfortable with the idea of people touching me and not accomplishing anything (for example, sloughing off excess skin), and now the idea of a massage makes me a bit squeamish. (It goes without saying whatever service I purchased entailed wearing a full set of underwear.)
However, I also remembered this place sold spa passes, and for $20 you got to indulge in their Jacuzzi, redwood sauna, eucalyptus steam room, lockers, beauty products, new age tea, and shower facilities, exactly what I need today. With a quick phone call I verify this information. Confirmed, I shove my swimsuit in a bag, and off I go.
I’m greeted at the door of this Japanese-style spa and leave my shoes next to all the others lined up against the wall. The receptionist talks about how this place is a calm oasis and their goal is to help me relax and find balance. They ask that I respect the other patrons by refraining from cell-phone use and keeping my voice down. “No problem!” I heartily agree before clamping my hand over my too-loud mouth. “Sorry!” I whisper.
I make my way down the long hall and am greeted by the most wonderful fragrances—fruity floral body wash, clean linen-scented candles, tangy, sinus-opening eucalyptus, smoky wood warmed by the sauna, and the chemical bite of the hot tub’s chlorine. To most people, chlorine’s kind of a repulsive smell, but for those of us who spent their summers submerged, it’s as pleasant as a sunny day when your only chore is to lie on a raft until you feel like riding your bike to the pro shop to buy a new Izod. 16
After an extra-soapy preliminary shower, I ease myself into the hundred-and-twenty-degree Jacuzzi, wallowing up to my ears. I bring the book Wicked with me as it’s already misshapen from too many spills into the bath. The Jacuzzi is huge and I’m able to float in the very center, spreading my arms wide, without touching any of the sides. I look like the Vitruvian Man—if he were wearing a pink-and-black Miraclesuit, that is. As the bubbles begin to buffer me against the sides, I feel
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