The Sister

A lesson from the naked spa ⁶

Y’all know I love me a day of clothing-free laziness at the naked spa. (And if you didn’t know that, you can read more here. I highly suggest checking out this story of the time I was quite literally the only nude person at the naked spa. The tale is 100% true, and one of the most awful, memorable and strangely awesome experiences I’ve ever had.)

But back to the story at hand. When I found myself in Seattle last Friday with the day off from work, I knew exactly how I wanted to spend it. My sister Hayley had also taken the day off so we might spend some quality time together. And so, at the butt crack of dawn (by which I mean 10:00 am) we crawled into her 1986 Toyota and hopped on I-5 towards Lynwood. We had some naked relaxing to get to.

Hayley had never been to any spa–let alone a nude one–and seemed slightly tentative about the entire experience. I assured her she would feel right at home, and offered to pay for her day pass, just in case she didn’t end up liking it. I was more concerned about her reaction to the general spa experience as opposed to the idea of walking around naked with dozens of fleshy strangers. Hayley and I come from a family that is very comfortable with the idea of not wearing clothes.

Err…that may have come out wrong.

Let me clarify that we aren’t one of those new age families who have family meals in the buff and vacation at the nudist colony or anything. Still, I’m pretty sure one of my parents (I’ll let you guess which one) was a nude art model, and my sister and I visited our very first nude beach as elementary school students. (Perhaps this explains my desire to crash that naked resort in Mexico?) My parents have always had the very European mindset that “It’s just a body.” While they always encouraged modesty and adhering to social guidelines, we were also taught that the human body shouldn’t be something that is taboo or shameful.

Needless to say, Hayley took to the naked spa like a fish to water. (A naked fish to water.)

Olympus Spa actually requires you to remove all clothing before entering the spa facilities. Much like a traditional spa, they provide you with a few towels, and a robe to wear. But I’m not talking the plush robes and bath towels you see in staged stock photos and luxurious advertisements. These towels are thin, worn and basic. The robes are clinical mint green cotton with thin red stripes–they look oddly similar to the modesty covers one wears during an annual pap smear. In addition to the medical-inspired robes, patrons are required to wear a pale pink shower cap to prevent hair from clogging the various drains. The result is an army of relaxed, naked women, walking around barefoot in identical uniforms. Hair is hidden, makeup is absent, and there’s a serious abundance of tattoos.

“It kind of feels like we’re in prison!” Hayley remarked as we waited in line for a spot in the spa cafeteria.

“Yeah,” I responded, “A very relaxed, zen prison with lots of tea and throw pillows, but I totally see the similarities.”

“I think I would do well in prison. It feels like one giant, naked sisterhood.” Hayley added.

“Yeah…but real prison doesn’t have delicious Korean food or a 150 degree mud and jade room.” I reminded her.

“I meant I would do well in spa prison.” she elaborated.

I smiled and nodded. The fact was, Hayley had passed the naked spa prison test with flying colors. She was worry-free, comfortable, and wasn’t letting the sweaty pink shower cap cramp her style. Dare I say it, she had made the nude spa her b****.

After a lovely lunch of steamed dumpling soup and Korean BBQ shrimp, Hayley and I returned to the pool room for a bit of communal skinny dipping. We couldn’t help but observe the variety of women around us (in a studious way, not a creepy way) and comment on the incredible nature of the human body.

“It’s kind of amazing how our bodies are all identical, yet at the same time so completely different.” Hayley observed. “I love the vibe here,” she continued, “Everyone is comfortable and embraces who they are. I feel like everyone here really loves themself.”

She was right. As I gazed at the dozens of naked strangers sharing the pools with us, I couldn’t help but agree that each body was uniquely beautiful. Some women were tall, others were petite. Many sported athletic physiques while others were incredibly soft and curvy. Every shape and size was represented, and the variety of female physiques were all graceful and delicate in their own special way. The spa was a place to celebrate the individuality of one’s body–no one was ashamed or self-conscious. It was a community of pride and diversity.

“I feel like they should bring awkward teenage girls here on field trips.” Hayley remarked. “You know…so they could see that it’s really not that bad.”

I nodded in agreement. Instantly, my mind travelled back to the late nineties — my junior high and high school years. I remembered studying magazine photos of Jennifer Lopez and Britney Spears, sighing as I felt I would never measure up. While I was never self-conscious about my body as a young girl, I absolutely hated my nose. Keep in mind that my beak has been the size it is now since approximately 1991. While I’d argue that today, my nose is relatively proportionate to the rest of my features, as a twelve-year-old girl, my face hadn’t even come close to catching up to the size of my schnoz. I would spend hours looking at my profile in the mirror, desperately wishing I could afford a preteen rhinoplasty. My father, who I clearly inherited my nose from, would try his best to comfort me.

“Katrina,” he encouraged, “You have a beautiful nose. Once you’re older, you’re going to be more accepting of who you are and less worried about silly things like this. But until then, just remember that there are lots of things that are more important than your face, okay? Plus…Barbara Streisand has a large nose, and she’s one of the most beautiful women in the world!”

At the time, I didn’t believe him. (Partly because I had no idea who Barbara Streisand was.) Yet now that I’m older and wiser, I see that his words were full of truth. While I still struggle with my appearance and feeling comfortable in my body, I become more and more accepting of myself as the years pass. I can’t help but think that going to the naked spa as an awkward bundle of puberty may have been really good for me.

“You are so right, Hayley!” I exclaimed. “We should totally do that. Like, start a foundation where we bring young girls to the naked spa to make them feel comfortable in their own skin. We could call it ‘Awkward is Awesome’ or something! It’s genius!”

Hayley stifled a giggle before continuing. “Umm…I was kind of joking, Katrina. I don’t think you could actually bring young girls here on field trips. I mean, it would be cool if you could, but I’m pretty sure most schools would consider it sexual harassment or something.”

Oh. Right.

So much for being the naked ambassador for young, self-conscious tweens everywhere. Sigh.

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Brunhilda ⁴

One of the best things about spending time in Seattle is getting to visit my younger sister, Hayley.

Being a mere two years apart, Hayley and I are extremely close, despite the fact that we are essentially polar opposites. While I spend my mornings applying Crest White Strips and a set of false eyelashes, she’s brushing her teeth with organic toothpaste that tastes like clay and slathering her lashes with an all-natural eyelash tint made from edible dye.Yet in spite of our striking differences, we share a bond stronger than the pungent taste of her terrible–yet apparently effective–toothpaste.

I hadn’t seen Hayley in person since December. When I arrived at her doorstep last week, I instantly knew something was different.

“Whoa…turn around!” I exclaimed. She slowly circled once as I took in her recent update in all of its stunning glory. ”Oh my gosh,” I cooed, “It’s amazing!”

“Thanks! I just cut it a few weeks ago.” she chirped. Suddenly, I realized my sister had lost approximately eight inches of length from her hair. It looked adorable, but that hadn’t been the change I was referring to.

“It’s totally cute! But…uh…I wasn’t talking about your hair. I was talking about your booty.”

Somebody had to say it. There was no denying the voluptuous bubble butt that was clearly the focal point of her floral print leggings. (And honestly, her entire appearance. Let’s just say homegirl is giving Beyoncé a serious run for her money.)

“You noticed!” she exclaimed with glee. “I’ve gained twenty pounds since you saw me last!”

Hayley’s recent weight gain certainly isn’t something she’s ashamed of. The first thing you should know is that my sister is an elite athlete. Not only is she a competitive rower who logs nearly two hours on the lake most mornings, she’s also very involved in a local running club, and is an up and comer on the Seattle triathlon scene. And Hayley doesn’t just compete in triathalons…she actually wins them. Needless to say, my little sis hadn’t gained twenty pounds as a result of too many hot mess burgers or lack of activity. She’s a physical specimen, gaining muscle and power as a result of some seriously intense training.

My sister’s rigorous physical activity requires that she eats several calories a day to maintain her energy level and fuel her metabolism. Basically, she’s one of those people who can eat whatever she wants and still be cellulite-free. Clearly, I hate her for this. (In the most loving way possible, of course.)

Take last Thursday for example. The weather in Seattle was absolutely gorgeous. We decided to meet my brother and his girlfriend for a sunset picnic at one of our favorite spots in the city, Gasworks Park. We stopped at Subway where I picked up a six-inch turkey breast on wheat. No mayo, no cheese, just lots of vegetables. I have a pair of lace shorts to fit in to, after all.

Naturally, Hayley ordered a foot-long sub filled with bacon, cheese, mayo, and all the good stuff I chose to deny my taste buds. She also topped it with every single vegetable offered…but all I could think about was that tasty, melty cheese. As we sat at the park, enjoying our meal, she noticed the longing gazes I kept directing towards her calorie-laden sandwich.

“Jealous?” she asked with a smirk.

“A little.” I confessed. “But some of us don’t work out three hours a day, and have to watch our diet as a result.”

“Sorry,” she shrugged, “I can’t help it if I have to feed the beast.”

“Please tell me you have not named your butt ‘the beast’?” I pleaded.

“You got a better suggestion?” she asked between bites of bacon-infused goodness.

“Umm…Brunhilda?”

And that’s how my sister’s arse got its name.

The following day, Brunhilda was on display for all to see as Hayley and I spend the day at my very favorite naked spa. (More on this tomorrow.) I stood in awe, watching her parade around the facilities with a rump that appeared to be sculpted out of smooth, white marble. And no…I don’t think it’s strange to write publicly about my sister’s behind in such a manner — if you’d been there you’d also recognize that it’s a freaking work of art.

Meanwhile, I kept my self-conscious saddlebags safely concealed in the whirlpool. (And how come I’m the one with saddlebags? I didn’t even EAT any of that bacon sub sandwich!)

While I’m certainly envious of the mighty Brunhilda, the thing I admire most about my sister is her confidence and self-love. Sure, it’s easy to feel comfortable in your body when you’re in pristine physical condition and in the midst of your athletic peak. But Hayley’s had her fair share of awkward phases, and certainly won’t be rocking the white marble booty forever. I’m certain that one day, when those foot-long sandwiches finally catch up to her, she’ll love herself just as much as she did last weekend at the spa. Hayley’s realized that it’s more important to focus on health and happiness as opposed to jean-size or an inner-thigh gap. She sees food as a source of joy and nourishment, not as a dangerous temptation or something she needs to restrict. My sister doesn’t have time to worry about counting calories or calculating the fat count in a strip of bacon — she’s too busy having fun and living her life to the fullest.

She enjoys the moment.

And the bacon sandwich.

I think we (and by we, I mean I) certainly have a lot to learn from Hayley.

And Brunhilda.

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"Sober up. We're going to Wal-Mart."

The Incident

Let's get ridiculous.

Apparently, I’m a murderer. ²

So…this kind of happened last night.

Yup. I was definitely the girl driving along a major interstate for 80+ miles with her high beams on. My bad.

To my credit, I passed at least three cops…none of whom pulled me over. Technically that means I’m innocent…right?

(It’s probably a very good thing they didn’t pull me over as I undoubtedly would have received a citation for driving with a hyperactive chihuahua sitting on my shoulders.)

Such a backseat driver.

Speaking of Jolie (and amusing text messages), the conversation below is a shining example of why I love my little sister to pieces.

The woman can instantly transition from dog feces to corn dogs without blinking an eye. And not just any corn dogs. Free range, organic, made from scratch corn dogs.

Is it obvious we come from the same gene pool? I’ll never forget the June 2008 day Hayley presented me with the very best give a sister can give.

(She introduced me to the corn dogs at Disneyland.)

I just want to declare that Disney corn dogs are hands-down the very best thing about the happiest place on earth. (And this is coming from someone who sings along on “It’s a Small World Afterall” and has framed a napkin with Buzz Light Year’s autograph scrawled across it.) Come hell or high water, Disney dogs will be last meal on earth…with a healthy dollop of spicy brown mustard, of course.

And so, when I return to Seattle in a few weeks, Hayley and I will attempt to trump Mickey Mouse’s magical deep-fried meat sticks. Regardless of whether or not we achieve success, one thing is absolutely for certain.

After three weeks of practicing a ridiculously diligent Weigh Watchers diet, I’m totally going to murder those corn dogs.

*******

Main photo by Andreanna Moya Photography

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I’m sorry ²

I want to apologize in advance as I can already tell this is going to be the worst blog post in the history of blog posts. Possibly in the history of all forms of writing.

(Aside from Nickelback’s song lyrics. Nothing is worse than Nickelback’s song lyrics.)

Honestly, I probably should have just skipped today’s blog — I’m pretty sure writing nothing would have been better than this. Actually, I know writing nothing would have been better than this, but I think it’s become quite apparent that in life and in blogging, I don’t always make the wisest choices.

I’m flying home from Seattle this afternoon and have approximately twenty minutes before I need to leave for my last day of work in the office. I’m short on sleep, short on time, and short on ideas, which is why you’re getting a photo of the new Ray-Bans I bought yesterday.

Worst. Post. Ever.

I realize a photo of a pair of overpriced wayfarers doesn’t really constitute an actual blog post, so I’ve decided to up the content-factor by writing a poem about them.

It’s a haiku. Because I’m fancy. (And also because I took poetry in college and don’t want those $3,000 worth of credits to go unused.)

Big, black and shiny

They make me feel relevant

Hide my crow’s-feet, too.

I think it’s really obvious why I earned an “A” in that poetry class. And really not obvious that I have crow’s-feet. As long as I’m wearing the Ray-Bans, that is.

On a semi-related noted, my sister Hayley picked me up from an event with my coworkers last night and took me to her favorite Seattle restaurant — The Bind Pig. Despite the fact that I’d had three cocktails, and a barrage of appetizers at Happy Hour, Hayley insisted I order an entrée and dessert, so that I could fully experience the pig in all it’s oh-so-tasty blindness.

It was incredible. My taste buds thought they were on cocaine or something. That’s how excited they were to be eating this food.

Halfway through the meal, I realized something interesting. It was 9:30 pm, and I was still wearing my Ray-Bans even though we were inside a dimly lit restaurant. I was also eating my food with such haste and desperation that a few snorting/grunting noises may have emerged from my mouth area.

I looked just like a blind pig.

It was like they knew I would be coming, and decided to name the restaurant after me before I even got there.

********

Disclaimer: Me or my taste buds have never tried cocaine. I just thought it was a good analogy.

(Told you this was the worst blog post ever.)