So it's 15 minutes into the massage and I'm zoning out into outer-spa-space thinking to myself, "You're going to have to sue me to get me off this table."
I know critics aren't supposed to gush, but it's either that or I lean over like a bed-headed Bond Girl and light up an after-massage cigarette. And I don't smoke. Yeah. This massage was that good.
Let me qualify this, because I was raised in the South, and that's what we girls do. I don't always rave about massage, but I do tend to get better massages than other people. Invariably, whoever I'm with at the spa will always get the therapist who talks all the way through her massage, or the one with a sly sadistic streak. I believe the more you celebrate about your life, the more you'll have to celebrate. This is true of spa treatments, too. The more you get into your spa experience, the more you'll get out of it. This is why I get to be the Massage Goddess.
Let's just say that my new favorite person, Sam, is a gifted Esalen-style massage therapist. I don't usually ask for a male therapist, because there's just too much weirdness about a strange guy touching me all over my naked body without him at least getting down on one knee with a big, fat engagement ring, but I was strapped for time, and Sam was available for a same-day appointment.
So anyway, the place is called Natural Body Spa, and it is a chain with multiple locations in six Southeastern states, including Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia. I went to the Decatur location, which sits in a row of strip-mall stores that all look the same, right at the intersection of Church Street and Ponce. It's a chain establishment, which means it's hit-or-miss with the massage therapists because there tends to be a big employee turn- over rate. (Massage therapists are nomadic and it seems unnatural for skin-worshipping gypsies to settle down.) But we took our chances.
I called at 10 a.m. on a Friday. I asked if I could get a 90 minute massage before 2:45 when I pick up my kids, and they said they had a 1:15 with Sam. I asked if they could move it back to 1 o'clock and they said they had someone booked before that.
Then I remembered my son has a playdate. Yay, I thought.
"Let's book that appointment with Sam," I said.
I wondered what my massage was going to cost. I peeked at their earth-toned website and discovered that a 90 minute Deep Tissue Massage costs MORE than a "Natural Body Signature Massage." (Read: Swedish.)
I decided to call back and ask for the Signature Massage rather than the Deep Tissue, save $15 and simply ask the therapist to do some extra work on my rhomboids, those painful little muscles between my shoulder blades. Then I'll just tip the therapist the difference.
I ask about the price difference.
"Yes it is more expensive." says the receptionist. "It's because the therapist has to work a lot harder to do a Deep Tissue Massage." Then she quickly suggests, "You can change it, I'll change it for you to the Swedish. It's definitely just as good, I guarantee you." she says, liltingly.
I stuff a twenty into my purse for the therapist before I leave.
I always do a body scrub in the shower before I go and leave my hair wet and pulled back into a ponytail. That way my skin is soft for days afterwards, and I don't have to worry about my hairstyle. I just let go and relax on the table, not caring that I'm going to look like Einstein in about an hour and a half. I take my notebook and a fast pen, leave my mascara off and my jewelry at home, and head out.
In downtown Decatur the traffic is bad, pedestrian and otherwise, and I have to dig four quarters out of the bottom of my purse to put in a meter. But I find a spot right in front of the spa--the parking angels are with me today and I am grateful. I am buffeted by a wave of citrusy lemongrass before I even walk in the door.
Jonathan greets me with licorice tea, and I fill out a "Natural Body Client Profile," which asks me if I have varicose veins, if I have had any cosmetic surgery done, and if I am taking birth control pills, among other things.
The nerve. I wander around the shop for a while, checking out the merchandise. I want the "Scent Ball," a nifty little thingy that you annoint with oil and plug into the wall. I want the Sherpa booties and hand-mittens that warm up in the microwave. I want the Red Clover hand lotion, every hair product that Bumble and Bumble makes--they must stock all of them--and a card with a glamorous painting of a jaded 1950's daughter that says, "She could no longer pretend he was interesting." I've already spent $200 in my head, so I decide to sit down before I hurt myself.
This is when Sam, my therapist, arrives looking Scandinavian and well-trained, sparing me from having to lust after clothes I can't afford in another issue of Elle. We walk down a softly-lit hallway, passing three other rooms, and arrive at our nook. It is small. There is a massage table and not much else. The colors are beige, beige and beige. He leaves me in the room to get undressed, saying "I'll be giving a knock in just a bit," and I sneak a few shots with the Spa SpyCam.
There is a nifty shelf for my tea, a wooden hanger for my clothes, and a wall sconce. No self-respecting spa-worshipper would ever leave her underwear on, so I let loose and sneak under the covers. They are three-star hotel quality--clean and white and a little rough--but hey, I didn't have to launder them. I'm happy. If I told you exactly how the massage went, you'd be too jealous and get catty with me. And besides, the memories are starting to blur into a melange of dreamy techniques. Hair mussing was involved. His biceps were somehow cradling my face at one point. I think one continuous stroke went under my body from my hip bones to the top of my head, while I was lying on my back, but I could have been hallucinating.
A lot has changed since the 1950s. What with a housecleaner to keep up the castle, the local noodle bar to feed you, a counselor to talk to you and a favorite massage therapist, you're set up. A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, but a good massage therapist is not negotiable.
WHAT WAS WONDERFUL
* The joint-mobilization of my hips and shoulders made me feel free and open.
* The neck work was expert.
* The therapist's energy was vibrant and spiritual. I don't know how else to say it. I was high when I left.
* The products available at the spa are excellent. I go there to get all my Aveda and Bumble and Bumble hair products.
* The spa itself feels professional, polished and kind-hearted.
WHAT I WOULD DO DIFFERENTLY
* The massage room was dreadfully small.
* It was really expensive to do a 90 minute deep tissue massage. It's not that difficult to work on me.
* I could have used a good steam before or after.
* I would have someone drive me.
* I would have Sam start over again at the end of the 90 minutes.
IN SUM
Natural Body is a delightful little neighborhood spa. My therapist was extraordinarily gifted. I left feeling like I could write the Next Greatest American Novel. Or at least a few good poems. My spirit was uplifted, and I felt tenderly cared for. I felt like the Massage Goddess.
Vital Stats
Spa Name: Natural Body Decatur
Address: 225 E. Ponce De Leon Suite 150
City/State/Zip: Decatur, GA 30330
Phone: 404-370-1330
Location: Decatur
Specialties: Instructional Couples Massage is available
Fees: $45-50 for 30 min. $75-90 for 60 min. $110-125 for 90 min.
Surroundings: Fun and cozy
Products Used: Jurlique, Naturopathica and their own line, Spa Natural Body
Touch Quality: Sensitive and loving
Extras: I got a little more than 90 minutes of massage, but I'm sure that doesn't always happen.
Spirit: Caring, homey and down to earth.
Rating: mmmmm ( Highest possible rating: mmmmm.)
About the Author: Hadley Richarde is The Spa Goddess. She is a woman addicted to luxury and pleasures of the senses who lives in Decatur and secretly wants to reign over a minor principality. In the meantime, she reviews spas and runs her own massage therapy and relationship coaching practice.
I know critics aren't supposed to gush, but it's either that or I lean over like a bed-headed Bond Girl and light up an after-massage cigarette. And I don't smoke. Yeah. This massage was that good.
Let me qualify this, because I was raised in the South, and that's what we girls do. I don't always rave about massage, but I do tend to get better massages than other people. Invariably, whoever I'm with at the spa will always get the therapist who talks all the way through her massage, or the one with a sly sadistic streak. I believe the more you celebrate about your life, the more you'll have to celebrate. This is true of spa treatments, too. The more you get into your spa experience, the more you'll get out of it. This is why I get to be the Massage Goddess.
Let's just say that my new favorite person, Sam, is a gifted Esalen-style massage therapist. I don't usually ask for a male therapist, because there's just too much weirdness about a strange guy touching me all over my naked body without him at least getting down on one knee with a big, fat engagement ring, but I was strapped for time, and Sam was available for a same-day appointment.
So anyway, the place is called Natural Body Spa, and it is a chain with multiple locations in six Southeastern states, including Florida, Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee and Virginia. I went to the Decatur location, which sits in a row of strip-mall stores that all look the same, right at the intersection of Church Street and Ponce. It's a chain establishment, which means it's hit-or-miss with the massage therapists because there tends to be a big employee turn- over rate. (Massage therapists are nomadic and it seems unnatural for skin-worshipping gypsies to settle down.) But we took our chances.
I called at 10 a.m. on a Friday. I asked if I could get a 90 minute massage before 2:45 when I pick up my kids, and they said they had a 1:15 with Sam. I asked if they could move it back to 1 o'clock and they said they had someone booked before that.
Then I remembered my son has a playdate. Yay, I thought.
"Let's book that appointment with Sam," I said.
I wondered what my massage was going to cost. I peeked at their earth-toned website and discovered that a 90 minute Deep Tissue Massage costs MORE than a "Natural Body Signature Massage." (Read: Swedish.)
I decided to call back and ask for the Signature Massage rather than the Deep Tissue, save $15 and simply ask the therapist to do some extra work on my rhomboids, those painful little muscles between my shoulder blades. Then I'll just tip the therapist the difference.
I ask about the price difference.
"Yes it is more expensive." says the receptionist. "It's because the therapist has to work a lot harder to do a Deep Tissue Massage." Then she quickly suggests, "You can change it, I'll change it for you to the Swedish. It's definitely just as good, I guarantee you." she says, liltingly.
I stuff a twenty into my purse for the therapist before I leave.
I always do a body scrub in the shower before I go and leave my hair wet and pulled back into a ponytail. That way my skin is soft for days afterwards, and I don't have to worry about my hairstyle. I just let go and relax on the table, not caring that I'm going to look like Einstein in about an hour and a half. I take my notebook and a fast pen, leave my mascara off and my jewelry at home, and head out.
In downtown Decatur the traffic is bad, pedestrian and otherwise, and I have to dig four quarters out of the bottom of my purse to put in a meter. But I find a spot right in front of the spa--the parking angels are with me today and I am grateful. I am buffeted by a wave of citrusy lemongrass before I even walk in the door.
Jonathan greets me with licorice tea, and I fill out a "Natural Body Client Profile," which asks me if I have varicose veins, if I have had any cosmetic surgery done, and if I am taking birth control pills, among other things.
The nerve. I wander around the shop for a while, checking out the merchandise. I want the "Scent Ball," a nifty little thingy that you annoint with oil and plug into the wall. I want the Sherpa booties and hand-mittens that warm up in the microwave. I want the Red Clover hand lotion, every hair product that Bumble and Bumble makes--they must stock all of them--and a card with a glamorous painting of a jaded 1950's daughter that says, "She could no longer pretend he was interesting." I've already spent $200 in my head, so I decide to sit down before I hurt myself.
This is when Sam, my therapist, arrives looking Scandinavian and well-trained, sparing me from having to lust after clothes I can't afford in another issue of Elle. We walk down a softly-lit hallway, passing three other rooms, and arrive at our nook. It is small. There is a massage table and not much else. The colors are beige, beige and beige. He leaves me in the room to get undressed, saying "I'll be giving a knock in just a bit," and I sneak a few shots with the Spa SpyCam.
There is a nifty shelf for my tea, a wooden hanger for my clothes, and a wall sconce. No self-respecting spa-worshipper would ever leave her underwear on, so I let loose and sneak under the covers. They are three-star hotel quality--clean and white and a little rough--but hey, I didn't have to launder them. I'm happy. If I told you exactly how the massage went, you'd be too jealous and get catty with me. And besides, the memories are starting to blur into a melange of dreamy techniques. Hair mussing was involved. His biceps were somehow cradling my face at one point. I think one continuous stroke went under my body from my hip bones to the top of my head, while I was lying on my back, but I could have been hallucinating.
A lot has changed since the 1950s. What with a housecleaner to keep up the castle, the local noodle bar to feed you, a counselor to talk to you and a favorite massage therapist, you're set up. A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle, but a good massage therapist is not negotiable.
WHAT WAS WONDERFUL
* The joint-mobilization of my hips and shoulders made me feel free and open.
* The neck work was expert.
* The therapist's energy was vibrant and spiritual. I don't know how else to say it. I was high when I left.
* The products available at the spa are excellent. I go there to get all my Aveda and Bumble and Bumble hair products.
* The spa itself feels professional, polished and kind-hearted.
WHAT I WOULD DO DIFFERENTLY
* The massage room was dreadfully small.
* It was really expensive to do a 90 minute deep tissue massage. It's not that difficult to work on me.
* I could have used a good steam before or after.
* I would have someone drive me.
* I would have Sam start over again at the end of the 90 minutes.
IN SUM
Natural Body is a delightful little neighborhood spa. My therapist was extraordinarily gifted. I left feeling like I could write the Next Greatest American Novel. Or at least a few good poems. My spirit was uplifted, and I felt tenderly cared for. I felt like the Massage Goddess.
Vital Stats
Spa Name: Natural Body Decatur
Address: 225 E. Ponce De Leon Suite 150
City/State/Zip: Decatur, GA 30330
Phone: 404-370-1330
Location: Decatur
Specialties: Instructional Couples Massage is available
Fees: $45-50 for 30 min. $75-90 for 60 min. $110-125 for 90 min.
Surroundings: Fun and cozy
Products Used: Jurlique, Naturopathica and their own line, Spa Natural Body
Touch Quality: Sensitive and loving
Extras: I got a little more than 90 minutes of massage, but I'm sure that doesn't always happen.
Spirit: Caring, homey and down to earth.
Rating: mmmmm ( Highest possible rating: mmmmm.)
About the Author: Hadley Richarde is The Spa Goddess. She is a woman addicted to luxury and pleasures of the senses who lives in Decatur and secretly wants to reign over a minor principality. In the meantime, she reviews spas and runs her own massage therapy and relationship coaching practice.
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