In your fifties, the nest is a place of transition; those whom you brought into this world are flying out and those who brought you into the world are hovering around it, just in case they need to come in for a landing.  My mother has always been a very independent woman and she deserves a little pampering, just as I do. On occasion, I treat myself to an afternoon at the spa for a facial to help control birds feet and other unwanted wrinkles and a massage to work out the kinks from too much computer time and the stress of life.

I decided to treat my mother to her first ever visit to the spa.  I made the appointment, picked her up, and during the car trip, explained the routine so that she knew exactly what to expect-everything from the questions she would be asked to what-not-to-wear for the massage.  The pampering experts greeted us arrival and away we went, one to the facial room and the other to the massage room.  I couldn’t wait to hear her reaction to her first facial.  Little did I know that I could have waited a little longer.

Our rooms at the spa were across from each other, separated by a narrow hallway.  After answering the therapist’s questions about problematic areas on my aging body, I slid into the soft, warm sheets and was ready for the first hour of bliss. As I snuggled in, I noticed the persistent murmur of voices from across the hall. I thought, “Boy, mom must have a lot of skin care needs to discuss with the skin pamperer.”

The massage therapist re-entered my room and began to work her magic, but I was distracted. I could still hear the murmur from across the hall. I tried to block it out, to ignore it. What could they possibly be talking about at a time when silence is such an important part of the bliss? About that time, the therapist gently rotated my head to one side.  “Good,” I thought, “one ear is now obstructed so maybe I will no longer hear the voices haunting ‘my time.’”  I waited and waited and waited. The anticipation was like waiting for the next drop of water to fall from a dripping faucet. Nothing, nothing, nothing, oops-there it is! Not only did the murmur return, but in the silence of my room, it seemed to grow louder and louder and louder.  I felt like I was getting a massage in my mom’s kitchen while she talked with her neighbor in the living room.  Whatever was being discussed in that facial room required a full hour of murmuring.  My mom enjoyed her pampering, but next time we go, the what-to-expect discussion will include what-not-to-say.