Expectations, great or otherwise

"I'm a duck," I thought near the end of my massage. My teeny-tiny therapist with the super-strong thumbs had her index fingers above my mouth and her thumbs below. When she pulled her hands to both sides, my lips puckered into a the shape I favored when I used to pretend I was a duck. (Singin' in the Rain? Knees bent, shoulders back, head up, tongue out? No? Girl Scouts? Just me? Fine.)

"Now I'm a happy duck," I decided as she moved her hands up - taking the corners of my lips with her, stretching the muscles of my face.

"Uh oh," I thought a moment later as she pulled down on my cheeks and my lips formed a harsh frown. "Now I'm sad." But before I could work my mood into a suitable pout, she started over and I was a duck again!

I'm a long-time massage-getter, so it's somewhat hard to impress or surprise me. The facial, however, was my first. And I found Angie, one of the most southern women I've met since arriving here, so enchantingly charming that I would have been her very best friend had she asked.

"Now, honey," she instructed when she left to get me more water in a wineglass with floating slices of lemon and cucumber, "you'll use that scrub all over your hands - rub them real good and it'll get all that dead skin off," she drawled while making the appropriate hand motions so I would follow her instructions. "Then you dry them real good with these paper towels," she pointed to them and I nodded, "and put on this lotion. It's thick, so don't worry if you can't get it all to absorb."

"Don't worry," I repeated. "Got it."

She nodded at me proudly and reminded me to take off my clothes and don the terrycloth wrap that snapped at the top. She left the room so I could undress again (why they didn't give me a robe before the massage is beyond me) and I grinned at myself in the mirror once I was in my tiny, white facial outfit. It was rather cute, I decided. Like being wrapped in a fluffy towel, but a little fancier. I dutifully began smoothing the sea green scrub into my palms, rubbing just as Angie showed me. I rinsed and made a face of approval at how soft my skin was. I smoothed on some lotion, reminding myself not to worry when white streaks lingered on my hands.

"I'm ready," I said when she knocked on the door and grinned at her. My face fell when she instructed me to dip my hands in the heated oil at the side of the sink.

"It's paraffin," she told me when I looked at her quizzically.

"Is it hot?" I asked, moving my hand close to the goo but not touching it.

"Well, I wouldn't touch the bottom of the metal part," she drawled but continued to encourage me until I made a face and stuck my right hand in, palm down and fingers spread, and held it to drip above the container.

"Three more times," she said, nodding and smiling and I wrinkled my nose and dunked my hand again and again and one last time before she tucked my waxy appendage into a plastic bag. We did the other hand, likewise containing the mess inside plastic. She then velcroed large terrycloth mits over the plastic and I stared down at them. I was torn between thinking it was nice that they matched my little towel-dress and the fact that I appeared to have claws.

"Now I'm a lobster," I thought with a smile as she helped me recline on the padded table and wrapped me up tightly in the sheet. "Lobster in a blanket," I decided, resting my claws on my tummy as my eyes closed and she turned on the steam.

"You do have some redness on your cheeks," she noted and I nodded, thinking that lobsters did turn red when steamed.

"It's always there," I said sadly. "I'm very fair, and I turn pink when I'm hot or embarrassed or, well, anything really." So she smoothed on a calming oatmeal mask while telling me about her family. We talked about our dogs while she wiped it off, asking me if the cloth was too hot.

"It's actually a diaper," she confided when I said the temperature was rather nice. "They're softer and easier to clean." I wondered briefly if that might scare some people, shrugged and decided I thought the diaper was very soft. So I snuggled into my cocoon of blankets, wiggled my fingers inside their claws and let her chatter until the lights went dim. I was quiet while she smoothed layers of hydrating creams on skin she said was too dry. There was another mask - chamomile, she said later - and more moisturizer, followed by serum. Then she wanted to zap me with some zappy device that's meant to kill bacteria.

"We need more slippage," she told me and reached for still more moisturizer. "Your poor skin is just soaking up all my products!" I apologized for my facial dryness and she scolded me for worrying about it. "Oh, and I'm supposed to use professional words," she said with a sigh. "Not slippage."

I giggled and let her move the sparky wand around. I only had one actual blemish and she spent a lot of time on it, killing the bacteria. I didn't believe it effective, but it wasn't painful at all. Yet I just went to look at the tiny pimple and it's almost gone. I kid you not - zappy, sparky wand did something cool! I so need one of those.

She smoothed on a final layer of floral-scented product and spent time massaging my scalp. I listened to her move her stool down the table and she peeled off my claw layer by layer. I'm molting, I thought with a wrinkled nose as the wax came off but enjoyed the attention as she massaged my fingers and palms. She pronounced me done - some 90 minutes after we started - and helped me rise from the table.

I blinked a couple of times while I found my balance and smiled when she thanked me for coming in.

"No," I demurred, "thank you. I wasn't sure what to expect, but that was wonderful." She told me to take my time getting dressed and look in the mirror to see what I thought. I wandered over and smiled when I realized I looked sleepy and relaxed. After admiring my reflection a moment more, I threw on my clothes and rushed out of the room to find my new friend.

"Angie!" I said when I saw her, "You made me pretty!" At which point she hugged me and smoothed my hair.

"You were always pretty, honey," she said with a shake of her head. "And you're so sweet!" I walked out after another hug and a coupon for my next visit. She carefully listed the products she used and how I could recreate the effect at home.

In terms of being surprised based on incorrect expectations, here's a list.

• Getting email from Friend yesterday that made me worry harder about her than I was about myself. Arriving at her lab to find her eyes puffy from tears and voice angry at the day's happenings. "I'd been happy lately," she noted, breaking my heart. "I knew it was bound to end relatively soon, but was hoping for at least a little longer."
• Hearing my interview on Monday - which I expected to be long - will last about 14 hours. I have concerns about my stamina.
  
• Receiving an offer from my contact to spend Sunday evening with me. It's lovely, really, that she offered to show me around and join me for dinner. I'd really, really, really, really rather be alone - to go to the ocean and drive around town and think and build up my resources for the lengthy Monday I'll face. Friend's Former Roommate informs me that I'm stuck with social Sunday. Good advice, I'm sure, but frick. Not What I Wanted.
  
• Losing coherence - I asked Friend if she would edit the final version of my paper while reading a daiquiri. "Did I say reading a daiquiri?" I asked a moment later and she nodded. "Crap." I sighed.
  
• Still not having an offer from Industry. Nor any update on when one will arrive.
  

For proof that I'm not always wrong, I pretty much expected the following:

• Dad thinks California would be awesome. Mom is Not Pleased.
  
• Boss is very proud of me and has told people I'm now in demand. It's lovely to work for someone who sees you as better than you actually are.
  
• I'm still freaking out - swinging between sadness and anxiety. I'll be fine, but this is not what I expected to do while preparing to start my Industry job.