You'd think working in a spa, I'd have exquisitely manicured hands and feet, smell like lavender and mint all the time, and just really really love the simplicity of the job.
Apparently, this romantic picture of the spa atmosphere is a crock to the highest extreme. No, not apparently. It IS. That one day of spa management study in Commercial Recreation really screwed me over. Sure, a spa is idyllic if you're the once participating, and not the one running the damn thing. It offers relaxation and pampering solely if you're the one putting up the insane amounts of cash to do it.
Don't get me wrong...this summer hasn't been ruined by the spa...the stupid stupid spa. But it sure opened my eyes to what I DON'T want to do with my life. The artificiality, the customer service, the monotony and the upset customers---get me outta there.
I want to sit in a room. Preferably alone, or with maybe one person, since I might get lonely, but that person would have to be really really really quiet...like a sleeping ninja. A room with chic furniture that no one ever sees but me and the ninja, and stacks and stacks of papers that need editing and proofreading. Stacks that I can liberally throw on the cutting room floor; things I can mutate and criticize and change as I wish. Then when the bloodbath of words is over, I can go home to my quiet house in the middle of nowhere but next to somewhere, with a lake view and gorgeous sunsets and a heated infinity pool...and not think about my job at all, except when I see my finished work in publication.
So long spa. We had a good run, but it's time for me to break up with you.