Last night I had a massage at the Elmwood Spa.
I should have known, savvy marketer that I am, that the first clue was the 20% off postcard I received in the mail. Add to that, the free gift basket full of useless and exceedingly smelly bath products. (Note: I'm planning to re-gift them in the office gift exchange.)
Meet Tatyana, lost czarina of the weak handshake.
I knew I was in trouble when I had to tell her to turn down the interrogation lights and stop playing the nature noises at ear-splitting volumes.
Then we went to work on my back. Lame. It was like she was icing a big, pale cake with a dull knife. A few "ows" and "too hards" later, she made her way to my legs. I had to stop her three times while she tried to massage my kneecap. MY KNEECAP!
"Please stop," I said, a little too politely.
"Too sensitive," she asked.
"Well actually, I'm not used to anyway massaging my kneecap," I said, snidely.
"Well, now you know," said Tatyana.
Then she went for my elbow. Must be Russian thing.
This was one of the few times that I -- schooled in the ways of Canadian niceness -- didn't tip for a service.
But I'll give you a tip: stay away from the Elmwood.
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2 comments:
I'd say just stay away from Tatyana.
If you want a really good massage therapist - a girl I had when she was a student at college, 3 years ago - is now on staff at the Royal York. I can pass on the name, if you want. She's funny, too.
The Elmwood is the Mcdonalds of the spa industry. Fast, flashy, oddly expensive and makes you feel not-so-good afterwards.
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