I have always been too hard on myself. This includes, but is not limited to, berating myself for not being a good enough wife/daughter/friend/neighbour/citizen/party guest, and beating myself up for not writing as much or as often as I think I should. Learning to go easy on myself for these and other real and imagined transgressions has not been an easy go, in large part because I seem to possess a gift for finding ingenious ways to thwart my own peace of mind.

For instance, a few years ago, my lovely mother very generously treated me to a day at Ste. Anne’s Spa—an oasis of mandated calm in Grafton, Ontario. One would assume that any sane, thinking person would revel in this rare chance to relax to the fullest. Here was the perfect opportunity to allow my cares to drift away like so much wild-mushroom foam on a soft, ylang-ylang-scented breeze. Instead, I was horrifically uncomfortable from beginning to end.

First off, I resented the uniform. Seriously, they expected us to wander the grounds in a BATHROBE? And be NAKED underneath? Not to mention the unsettling sense that my mother and I, surrounded by so many other white-robe-wearing, blank-faced and blissed-out guests, had unwittingly joined a cult. Furthermore, I am not a fan of hot tubs (Too hot! Too much water pressure on sensitive areas!), massages (Too touchy! Too much hand pressure on sensitive areas!), or yoga (Too flakey! Plus I am fearful of snapping my neck during neck-related poses), so my options for treatments were limited. I chose a solo foot massage because I figured with that route, the roving hands would have less ground to cover—but then I didn’t consider the tickling issue (stupid, stupid), and a group meditation session with my mom.