Photo courtesy HUUM via Unsplash

One Saturday, I decided to treat myself to a spa visit.

I sought mind-body purification by plunging into cold pools, then sweating out toxins in the steaming sauna. 

I arrived early in the morning. Upon paying for day-use, the receptionist handed me towels and a locker key. After a couple of hours of alternating between cold-hot therapy, I drifted to the dry sauna. The Himalayan rock salt room boasted benefits of relieving stress. It featured pink crystals spread across the floor, heated from underneath. I lay down on the cozy salt and closed my eyes. Ahh. Silence.

Caa caa! My eyes snapped open. Did the spa accidentally pipe in shrieking nature sounds? Mating primates? Caa caa! 

I sighed, endeavoring to hold onto what little peace remained. I dove one more time into the cold pool to reset my nerves. I showered in a cloud of Zen, but the cackling pierced the tranquil setting. Like a smudge of dirt sullying a pristine dress. Swaddled in the bathrobe, hair secured in a towel, I sauntered into the locker room.

I met the source of the dirt: a gang of ajummas

(Korean aunties, not blood related but a general category of elderly women.) This clique of petite, visor-wearing ajummas gossiped in tinny voices that could strip paint from poles. My Zen cloud disintegrated like wet cotton candy.

I flashed a half-hearted smile with a half-bow. According to custom, I was obligated to bow and show respect as the younger woman. But I was born in the US, where I was not duty-bound to show humility to older women or anyone. Thus my half-half approach. 

They ignored me. The seven curly coiffed women held court, commandeering the benches. They sipped free lemon water in paper cups and snacked on seaweed rolls they’d snuck inside of Walmart plastic bags.  

I inched sideways to my locker. Instead of undressing in spacious discretion, I disrobed in the cramped stares of the ajummas. I had planned to luxuriate in the make-up room, availing myself to hair tonic and cucumber-lemon lotion. However, the scent of sesame oil and yellow pickles diminished my vision of elegant pampering to a Korean church picnic. The ajummas passed around a box of toothpicks, picking their teeth behind their hands.

I hopped into my jeans.

Leaned against the locker to tie my shoes. I was about to toss my robe and towel into the hamper when an ajumma extended her arm.

Ah-ga-si! (younger woman)

She wanted my robe to access the facility beyond the locker room. It was against the rules, but clearly she didn’t care. I recoiled, horrified by her uncouth behavior. I’d come for serenity but frown lines carved my forehead. I breathed in. One, two, three. Breathed out. Four, five, six.

She expected me to obey and allow her to use my robe. I handed it to her.

Which pool is best? she asked, already naked.

I pointed—Don’t dip your toe, just jump in—then turned and walked toward the exit. As I pushed the door, I heard a splash then a terrific screech. I’d pointed her to the iciest pool.

In my car, I caught my face in my rearview mirror. My eye bags had tightened up. That ajumma may hate me now, but she’ll thank me later.