A Feel-Good Christmas Story

"My wife wants me to have baby feet!" I told her.

[an error occurred while processing this directive]

"That's right," she said, in her calming, don't-panic voice. "You'll have baby feet. Now just put them in the tub for me."

And that's when I began to really understand what spas were all about. For the next 45 minutes, my battered feet were massaged, buffed, oiled and groomed to perfection -- transformed from oafish lumps into objects of innocence and grace. For the first time in their lives, they were, dare I say it, beautiful. Using them for walking seemed an indignity. I wanted to have them bronzed.

But my rejuvenation was just beginning. Samantha passed me to a masseuse named Lakia, who stretched me out on a warm massage bed and, for the next 80 minutes, expertly soothed every shred of tension from my body. Rubbing me with aromatic oils and pressing deep into my muscles with a warm poultice of Thai herbs, she gave me a sort of acupressure massage unlike anything I'd ever experienced. The scent of the herbs was almost intoxicating, and as the tensions dissolved, I drifted into a blissful, oceanic state of peace -- or, as spa people call it, "the drool zone."

"How was it?" Farrand asked us later, after we'd met up in the relaxation room and were floating to the door to check out. I looked at my wife, who was in some peaceful land beyond human speech. The hot clay had clearly done its work.

"Fantastic," I admitted. "But I feel like I should go do something manly now."

"Just relax," she said, with a knowing smile. "You'll be fine."

Stephen Brookes last wrote for Travel about Cambodia.