THE SCOOP

When I mentioned I was headed to the Napa Valley, my friends insisted that I take a mud bath at Dr. Wilkinson’s Hot Springs in Calistoga. “You’ll feel like a new person,” they promised.

I arrive at the spa at 9 a.m. sharp, ready to be pampered. The receptionist chirps that the mud is actually Canadian peat moss. I think of all the healthy-looking Canadians I know. And peat moss--restorative powers ooze from the name.

I head into the women’s side, undress and wrap myself in a long white sheet. An attendant leads me down a dim hallway, my makeshift robe flowing behind me.

And there it sits. The answer to a lifetime of stress-related pain.

It is a tub filled to the brim with what looks and smells horrifyingly like steaming horse manure.

I am paralyzed. Apparently, the good folks at Dr. Wilkinson’s expect me to go gently into that good tub. I am wishing I had noted the nearest exit. Bravely, I lie on the counter next to the malodorous mass and, eyes squeezed shut, slide in. I am instantly encased in a ton of thick, stinking glop. “Just relax,” an attendant advises cheerfully, piling mud on top of me.

Obviously, she has not grasped the situation. This is the stuff of nightmares. I can’t move, not a finger, not a toe, barely an eyelash. I begin to sweat profusely. Images of the kind of mutant insects that must call this mud home fill my mind. I chant to myself “relax, relax, relax,” but all I can think is “will I ever be clean again?”

Ten stress-filled minutes later, I’m lifted out. I do indeed feel like a new person. I’m just not sure who, or what her life expectancy is. I survive the steam-cleaning (sauna) and muscle assault (massage) by assuring myself that I will put them behind me with a few wine-tastings. But, as I drag my now-aching body out the door, the attendant has some news. “We’ve gotten all the toxins out of your body,” she says, with a smile. “You may feel nauseated for the rest of the day.”

From now on, I’ll stick to hot showers.