A Tale of Two Massages

After 35 years of marriage, you’d think Gene and I would have run out of “firsts” to experience together. But two weekends ago, there we were — at the ritzy Ritz-Carlton, about to get our very first couples massage. As simple, small-town folks who consider a fancy dinner out to be in line with ordering the vegetable plate at the Cracker Barrel, we both felt a little like fish out of water.

First, let me explain how we got there. I write for a luxury lifestyle publication in Florida, and many of the articles I write or edit for that magazine involve travel to grand hotels and resorts. At the end of 2024, the publisher of that magazine called and said, “I’ve arranged for you and a guest to go to the Ritz-Carlton Reynolds, Lake Oconee, for a two-night stay with meals, cocktails and a visit to the spa, all expenses paid, so that you can better describe the experiences there.”

The resort itself was something else — the lakeside setting was just lovely; the food was outstanding; our experience in the real hidden speakeasy there was so uniquely fun; and we biked all around the property, which we enjoyed immensely. It was the kind of place where the valet parks your car, even though you can see the parking spot from the front door, and where they turn down your bed linens and leave a chocolate mint on the pillow. We just aren’t accustomed to that level of pampering.

But the massage adventure? That’s when things got really interesting. Having never had a professional massage before, Gene called his biological mother for guidance the day before our trip. “Strip down,” she warned. “If you leave your underwear on, they’ll stretch out the elastic sometimes. They need full access to your muscles.”

On Sunday morning, we walked over to the spa in our clothing, and the attendants separated us so that we could use his and her changing areas to put on robes and store our personal belongings in private lockers. On the female side of the spa, I looked at the attendant and said, “I’m very unsophisticated, and so I have to ask: Do I take all my clothes off for the massage here?”

The kind attendant emphasized, “comfort level,” and assured me that keeping my undergarments on was perfectly fine. I tried to text Gene this vital information, but wouldn’t you know it — I didn’t have cell service or Wi-Fi in the spa.

Minutes later, the attendant escorted me to the couples massage room, where Gene stood wrapped in a matching robe as soft New Age music played and a light eucalyptus fragrance wafted through the air. Two massage therapists talked to us for a few minutes before stepping outside the door so that we could shimmy underneath the sheets of our heated massage tables in privacy. And it was then that Gene and I had our moment of truth.

I stripped off my robe exposing my underwear beneath. Gene disrobed and wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. There he was — naked as a jaybird, like he was about to go streaking, already feeling extremely uncomfortable — when he glanced around at me and saw that I was wearing undergarments. He looked at his body, then at mine, then at his again — mouth wide open, turning redder than a tomato in August and sweating like a sinner at a church revival.

“You’re wearing underwear!” he exclaimed frantically. “Why didn’t you tell me to keep my underwear on? I’m completely naked, and I have no idea where my clothes are!”

That’s when it hit me. Gene was living out everyone’s worst nightmare — that horrible dream where continued from page

you go to school or work or church, and everyone is wearing clothes, but in the dream, you suddenly realize that you have forgotten to put your clothes on that morning. You wake up in a panic.

“Just get under the sheet!” I whispered commandingly. “It’s going to be fine!”

He lunged under the sheet of his table like he was sliding into home plate, all the while mumbling about being buck naked.

A minute later, the massage therapists re-entered the room, and once the rubbing started, everything was perfectly professional. Neither got close to our most private areas, so it didn’t even matter that one of us was 100% nude and the other wasn’t. Our therapists were wonderful, and both of us ended up enjoying the experience immensely.

Looking back, I can’t help but laugh at how we worked ourselves into such a tizzy over something that turned out to be so pleasant and relaxing. I suppose that’s what happens when a couple of small-town folks try to get all fancy. But you know what? After 35 years together, it’s these moments of shared awkwardness and adventure that we will remember until death does us part.