The husband and I dropped the kids off with my mother in law on Wednesday for a two day stay, along with a set of detailed instructions on the drop off/pick up procedure that is heavily enforced by the elementary school CAR RIDER NAZIS.

They’ve been known to blow whistles and angrily shout in German when a confused parent screws around with the precise routine. Those people are intimidating as hell. Especially Miss Braun. I think her first name is Eva. I’m not sure, but she’s quite crude, and her boyfriend, Adolph, has a scary little square mustache.

“You drop youth off here! Not there! Pull up 3 inches! Quickly! Quickly, dummkopf!” she shouts as my daughter tumbles out of the car and sprints to the curb with the contents of her backpack spilling forth.

Anyway, we left the children with the in-laws, and we hightailed it two hours away to Nashville, Tennessee. I can’t remember the last time I rode in the car without hearing my kids singing to Kidz Bop or laughing hysterically from the back seat at that fat blue girl on the Willy Wonka DVD.

It was bittersweet as I turned up the radio as loud as I damn well pleased, smoked in my car, and  threw out the S-H-I-T word 24 times in a 3 mile radius. It was just like being 17 again.

We made it to the Opryland Hotel, dropped the car off at valet, checked in, admired the beautiful atrium view from our room, and then we ate chocolate covered strawberries and killed a bottle of champagne. It was just like being 17 again. If I was Lindsey Lohan.

You see, Hubs’ place of employment bestowed this wonderful all expense paid trip upon us as a token of their appreciation for all of the hard work that Husband does. Now, that’s just good leadership, isn’t it?

The next day, the men played golf while the wives ate an elegant lunch and proceeded to the spa. Now, this wasn’t your ordinary spa. It certainly wasn’t the spa that I’m used to- with mildew in the shower, a can of Scrubbing Bubbles on the vanity, and an elderly woman named Mable complaining about her arthritis as she gives you a light pat down. No, this spa was all European and stuffs. There were diacritical marks over several letters in the spa’s name. You know, high end classy kind of shit.

When it was time for my hot rock massage session, I was escorted into the little room, music consisting of woodwinds and crickets filling the space, and the massage therapist went to work.

She was no Mable. Girl could massage.

“You have such a large knot in your thigh,” she interrupted my relaxation.

If you’ve been reading my blog for any period of time, you know that I’m a hypochondriac. My post, “Because Its Probably Gangrene“, describes my sordid affair with hypochondria. So, when a massage therapist tells me that I have a knot, I immediately start thinking of amputation.

“Wow. I’ve never felt a knot this large in the leg,” she stated, pounding my flesh with the scorching rocks.

“What do you mean? What causes this?” I screeched out from the headrest, panic overtaking me, my eyes darting around the dark room, the woodwinds now annoying.

“Bad posture,” she replied. “But, wow. I mean, this is a really large knot.”

Okay, the relaxation is gone. I’m mulling over doctors in my area, anxious to get to my phone and Google this nonsense.

As this photo was being taken 5.7 hours after the massage, I was still thinking about the lump in my leg.

I tried to push the thoughts of Gangrene to the back of my head and enjoy the rest of the massage. I mean, it was an awesome massage after all. Damn that huge knot in my thigh.

I sat in the steam room for a spell, asking the other ladies their opinions. No one seemed terribly concerned, although I heard the word “tumor” twice. I had to excuse myself from the steam and rush to an internet source.

Suprisingly, the internet calmed my fears somewhat. It’s usually the opposite. But I managed to dismiss the thought as I rubbed my leg and went back to the room.

We had an elaborate five course meal that night. I’ve never eaten cheese with such a smell, or drank wine with such a name, but I assume that’s how the rich folk do. The presentation of the food on the fine china was immaculate. I didn’t want to smear the drops of strawberry sauce that lined the gorgeous slice of cheesecake.

In other words, it was super duper classy. I didn’t even burp at the table once. And I think I used the right forks for all the right stuff. I was so proud of myself.

The next day was more of the same. More relaxation. More delicious meals. More Googling when an Israeli guy at the mall kiosk flew a remote control helicopter into my face. Suprisingly, Google eased my fears with that, too. Turns out the internet was correct when they said I would regain my eyesight.

All in all, it was a wonderful little getaway. And I think that knot in my leg has shrunk substantially. Winning.

massage Nashville Opryland Spa Vacation