The Man About TOWN goes to the mat

At no other time in history has the civilized man been so easily able to overcome his imperfections. Online stores are brimming with products to increase our height and restore our hairlines, and late-night infomercials promise to locate our lost six-packs and enliven our lazy libidos. Even the corner drugstore, once limited to cold medicine and eye drops, now offers teeth-whitening systems, tanning sprays, and an arsenal of battery-operated manscaping appliances with settings ranging from courteous to grotesque.

Whereas months of exercise were once necessary to battle our mid-sections, we now have men’s Spanx, t-shirt-shaped compression wear to minimize our “love handles.” Men are now getting Lasik surgery and calf implants, manicures and microdermabrasion. We’re getting exfoliated, groomed, tailored, and trim. Men are becoming, in a word, vain. And, as most women will tell you, at not a moment too soon.

Your Man About Town applauds this modern trend of male vanity, but with one suggestion. In this, the month that Cupid draws his bow, I ask every man out there who is cursing crow’s feet or shaving south of the border to remember Shakespeare’s immortal words: “Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.”

It was in the interest of Cupid and love that I attended the weekly meditation class at 90 Degrees Yoga. The studio is located in a shopping plaza just off of Pelham Road and right next to Tortilla Maria. Aware of this fact, I arrived early for the 7:30 p.m. class, taking time to enjoy a well-prepared, organic meal. In full disclosure and despite being delicious, eating three black bean tacos before sitting in a quiet yet crowded room was not one of my wisest decisions. 

The 90 Degrees studio is comfortable and welcoming, with several rooms for various classes. I stood by one door and watched as beautiful but sweaty hot-yoga enthusiasts were instructed to twist and stretch in a routine that I’m certain violated the Geneva Conventions.

Just before 7:30, a beautiful blonde gently grabbed my elbow and offered to lead me to the meditation class. Ten people, mostly women, were in the room, all wearing loose-fitting shirts and yoga pants. Not knowing what a gentleman wears to a meditation class, I was dressed as if ready to play 18 holes at Chanticleer. Yoga mats and pillows were provided for those who had not brought their own (namely, me), and I unrolled mine just as the instructor entered and welcomed everyone to the class.

The beautiful blonde had placed her mat next to mine, and she smiled warmly as the instructor guided us in a few deep breaths intended to clear our minds. The class proceeded with the instructor inviting us to lie on our backs, close our eyes, and concentrate on our toes. We inhaled and flexed our toes then exhaled and released the tension. This flex-and-release process continued up through our legs to our arms, chest, neck, and head. After 30 minutes, we were ten lumps of lifeless flesh, our conscious minds clear, at least temporarily, from the weight of the world.

As I walked to the car, I had to admit I felt a deep sense of relaxation and calm. The beautiful blonde had walked out with me, and we commented on the unseasonable warmth of the winter night and the waning moon. I opened the passenger door and she tossed her yoga mat to the floorboard. “Darling, thank you for going with me,” she said, giving me a quick wink as she slid into the seat. And as simple as that, Cupid’s arrow struck me again, just as it’s done for years. I rushed to the driver’s side, obviously wanting to get home as quickly as possible—my Spanx were absolutely killing me.

The Man About TOWN sheds layers at River Falls Spa

It has become tradition to welcome each new year with a renewed enthusiasm toward one’s health. As the clock approaches midnight and with Champagne glass in hand, we promise to eat less, drink less, and treat our bodies with more care and attention than in the previous 12 months. Your Man About Town is no stranger to this phenomenon, so in an attempt to literally strip away the excesses of 2012, I scheduled an end-of-year full-body exfoliation and facial at River Falls Spa.

I was welcomed to this discreet establishment, located just off of Main Street in downtown Greenville, by a woman named Susan who escorted me down a long hall toward the men’s lounge. The lighting was warm and delicate, and soft music flowed through the interiors as if Yanni himself might be lurking around each corner. After changing into a luxurious robe, I was introduced to Jessica who led me to the exfoliation room. The room was furnished with a cushioned table positioned under a Vichy shower, a horizontal array of shower heads that reminded me of an automated car wash.

Jessica handed me a small pouch containing disposable briefs I was to put on when she left the room. After a few confusing moments trying to determine the front from the back, I slipped the briefs on to realize it made no difference. I was lying face up on the table when Jessica returned with the exfoliating scrub, a blend of oils, sea salt, sugar, and secret ingredients. Taking a cue from my wide eyes and red cheeks, Jessica kindly asked if I felt “exposed.” I told her I felt exposed when my second shirt button was undone, so in a word, YES. She produced a towel and throughout the treatment, including occasional repositioning, used it to keep my discreet areas covered with the deftness of a burlesque artist handling a feather fan.

From the tops of my shoulders to the soles of my feet, Jessica massaged the scrub into my flesh until I felt as if I’d been dragged across wet sand by a team of wild horses. With the Vichy shower now on, Jessica gently rubbed my body as the scrub and millions of dead skin cells washed over the edge of the table and down the drain. The rinse was a moment of pure metamorphosis. It was as if last year’s skin was literally sliding off to reveal new, revitalized flesh. After drying me off, Jessica moisturized my skin with lotion as I contemplated what item in my monthly budget I could forgo to replace with this treatment on regular basis.

With new flesh from the neck down, it was time to attack the face. Jessica handed me off to facial expert Sharon who immediately asked if I wore sunscreen. After gently reprimanding me for my answer, Sharon proceeded to cleanse my face with a restorative scrub. A steam treatment was applied to open my pores and to allow the next procedure, a volcanic mask, to penetrate deep into my skin. Once dry, Sharon removed the mask and began the extraction phase, a process of removing blackheads too ghastly to commit to print. Moisturizer, with sunscreen, was then applied and I was finally, from head to toe, a new man.

Back in the men’s lounge, I relaxed in the steam room and made resolutions for the coming year, including scheduling periodic exfoliations, massages, and facials. A little lighter and a little pinker, I dressed and walked to the lobby where Susan greeted me with a strawberry and small piece of pineapple. The total for both services was less than a night’s stay in a luxury hotel and the benefits much more noticeable. As I climbed the stairs toward Main Street, the sun was setting and the air felt cool against my freshly scrubbed cheeks. With a spring in my step, I crossed the street toward the bar at Soby’s, where the last excesses of 2012 waited impatiently.