A dozen or so years ago, a friend gifted me a treatment at the spa of a ritzy country club in Thailand. It was promised to be the pinnacle of relaxation: 90 minutes of muscle-kneading, my limbs lathered in aromatherapeutic oil and my back covered in flimsy patches of 24-karat gold that would supposedly do wonders to my skin.

Little did my friend know that this was the first time I had stepped foot into a spa.

As I lay facedown on the massage table, a soft-spoken therapist pulled and stretched my limbs into every direction. All I could think was: “When is this over?”

I’ve never been a “spa person.” As a luxury travel journalist, I’ve had numerous opportunities to enjoy world-class spa treatments on my employer’s dime. But more often than not, I’d pass — often to much ridicule. The idea of having a complete stranger touch me all over my half-naked body never enticed me. The pressure to relax stressed me out.

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