Going Bananas

According to the detailed spa menu sitting on our table last night, dessert was only thirty-eight calories. Frankly, that seemed like a lot for the "frozen banana treat," which tasted like sawdust mixed with banana mashed by someones feet.

I'm still trying to figure out how they got the banana concoction to look like ice cream (such a tease), but the caloric info should have been sufficient to tip me off to the ruse. Some people will do anything for a "sweet" though, and I was amazed at how many of my fellow spa guests seemed to savor every bite of what I thought could be put to better use as bug repellent.

As you drive into the parking lot of the little spa in central Illinois, the first thing you see is a sign warning against bringing junk food of any kind onto the premises. I tucked my can of chocolate covered cashews deep within my shoulder bag, spilled out the remains of my McDonald's diet coke, and bravely made my way down the meandering path to the check-in desk. Feeling the reassuring outline through my bag of my stash of contraband treats, I was able to feign excitement at the array of raw veggies, fresh fruit, and pitchers of what appeared to be chilled urine samples on the table in the foyer.

It is six thirty in the morning now, and I am readying myself for a day of intense physical exertion and starvation. I am already dressed in my standard issue spa shorts and tee shirt, have popped my morning steroid pill and a few advils, and have shoveled in a few chocolate covered cashews to tide me over until breakfast. Unfortunately, my morning massage will require me to miss the cardio kickboxing class, but my afternoon citrus wrap will cause me to miss a snack, so we'll just call it even.

My guess is that after today's grueling activities even I will find dessert appealing. I still have a few cashews left, just in case.