Dubai's Desperate Housewife

I realise in writing this I’m going to sound terribly spoilt, but here goes anyway.

I’ve been quite stressed lately. Not stressed in the way you’d be when you’re working 85 hours a week in a difficult job with incompetent muppets (I think we’ve all been there), but stressed in the low-key way a working housewife can be stressed in the run up to Christmas.

Do I look worried? I think I look worried.

Stressed in a sort of “there’s just not enough hours in the day / days in the week to get everything done” sort of stressed. And in a “why the hell does school finish on December 15?” kind of way. And in a “what am I going to give 50 guests at our party on Thursday?” kind of way.

And when life’s going on like that, the first thing to go is my shoulders. Up they go – up, up and away like hot-air balloons. After a few days of holding them clenched at that height, they become quite painful so I decided to sneak in a little 30-minute shoulder massage at the nail salon before a long overdue night out with a bunch of girlfriends.

“Please don’t get oil in my hair,” I begged the therapist, as I snuggled down on the treatment bed. (to be honest, 30 minutes horizontal with no children around was treat enough – you could almost forget the massage). “I’ve just washed it and I’m going out for dinner (with my über-glam girlfriends).”

“No problem,” she said, covering my head with a towel lest she forget.

The massage was bliss. The therapist found the epicentre of my shoulder and neck pain and firmly erased it while I tried not to moan out loud with relief.

“Sit up,” she said after about 20 minutes, then continued the massage with me vertical. Sure, I was struggling to cover my boobs with a towel that kept slipping, but it was nice. It allowed a degree of movement not possible when horizontal. It was going swimmingly –

And then…

… she placed her hand on the top of my head to steady it while she dug her fingers into my neck.

And what do you do when you know you’re getting a great big oily handprint on your freshly washed hair – but you’re enjoying the massage so much you don’t want her to stop? What do you do? Talk about First World Problems.  

I let her carry on. And I went out to dinner with an oily great handprint on top of my head.

To be fair, my friends didn’t snigger for long.