Code zero
Hi friends! Holy shit, right?Â
Based on the current state of my neck (i.e., seized up on one side like an engine without oil), I’m pretty sure my subconscious mind is spending all the time worrying about the both the short term (i.e., people we love might die) and long-term (i.e., every we know might be completely fucked) implications of this still-pretty-fucking-new new world order, and I imagine yours is too. But I’m finding great comfort in the stories from all over the world of people pulling together to help each other, as well as those of the “penguins touring the aquarium” variety. So rather than cracking another “I may never wear a bra again” joke or telling a “wow, turns out I’m really bad at second grade math” tale, here’s a completely unrelated story that involves me humiliating myself again (bonus points on this one for also traumatizing my closest friends) in the hopes that it might take your mind off things for a minute or two. Please enjoy.
Take yourself back to a simpler time: February 2020, when my primary concerns included how to get two kids to overlapping soccer games, whether to go to Din Tai Fung or Damon’s for dinner, and if I should invest in a new pair of checkered Vans or throw caution to the wind and buy the python print ones. My three best ladies and I had planned a much-needed spa day. Much-needed because, despite all our high hopes, 2020 had already not gotten off to a fantastic start (I know, I know), and because life is hard, and because we’re all busy (correction: we were all busy) and only get together sans hanger-oners (spouses, children, dogs) once or twice a year at most. So we blocked out a whole day, a Sunday to be precise, all to ourselves.Â
For weeks, months possibly (maybe even years), our iMessage thread was peppered with excited variations of “Calgon, take me away!” followed by counting down the sleeps, until at last our day arrived.
We piled into my friend Allison’s car (actually her husband’s truck because her sister was in all seriousness almost fucking killed in a car accident two days before and her miraculous survival and minimal injury was attributed to her sturdy Toyota pickup – see previous comment re: 2020) at 9am, rolling in deep athleisurewear (Rebecca was particularly impressive in head to toe Adidas, prompting her 13 year-old son to ask her not to get out of the car when she dropped him off at baseball practice that morning - rude) and cackled our way out to the spa. Upon arrival we checked in and donned our squishy bathrobes. Robyn and I also downed a mimosa. We discussed, with some disdain, how we would definitely not be using the plastic phone case necklaces provided to all patrons, presumably to enable easy selfie-taking (i.e., free marketing for the spa). We would not, we assured each other, be taking any bathing suit selfies, thank you very much. Then we hit the pools, feverish with excitement at all the hours of unbridled relaxation that lay ahead of us.Â
We squeezed into the mineral tubs first, where we rubbed elbows with fellow bathers for the prescribed 20 minutes. Then we walked casually (as casually as one can walk in one’s bathing suit) to the next pool, which was shaded and infused with epsom salts, apparently. It was also quite crowded. It was also, unbeknownst to me, the hottest pool on the grounds. We found a spot near the stairs and soaked in the heat and saline for a while, still babbling excitedly, planning our route for the day. Around the time we started discussing lunch (the text-thread plan that morning was to “fuck up some nachos” when we got there), I also started looking around for something cooler than shade, feeling like I was maybe getting a wee bit hot. We agreed to move on.Â
As soon as I stood up and started heading for the stairs, I felt it. That cold tingling sensation in my spine followed by a blurring on the edges of my vision. I remember looking over at the lounge chairs where we’d left our stuff, which were probably about 15 feet away but felt to me at that moment a thousand miles out of my reach, and thinking to myself, “Just get to the chair and put your head between your legs.” My brain screamed, Be cool, bitch! I even managed to say to my friends, “I feel a little bit like I might pass out.”Â
And then I passed the fuck out. On the concrete. In my bikini. In front of about 5,000 people.
The worst thing about fainting is that you wake up with no idea what’s going on, wondering how you managed to have an impromptu nap in whatever random location you happen to find yourself in. You may remember my tattoo shop incident a few years ago, which was equally humiliating. That time I woke up lying on a tattoo table vaguely confused about what was happening.Â
This time, I woke up to complete pandemonium.Â
I was in the vicinity of the lounge chair I’d been aiming for, but not on it. Rebecca and Robyn were propping me up by my neck and elbow (I think – there may have been a leg involved) while some guy named Brian, who I suspected was a cop but who turned out to be a particularly dedicated spa employee, threw cold water in my face. My friend Allison was running around in her bathrobe screaming, “A phone! A phone! I need a phone!” at anyone who would listen, while another spa employee with a radio kept saying, “Code zero!” and several unfamiliar women in bathing suits were shouting my name and some other things I couldn’t understand in my general direction. (These kindly bathers turned out to be nurses who had jumped out of the pool when I dropped, as my husband would say, like a bag of shit. Bless them.)Â
My first thought was, “Wow, how did I fall asleep in all this excitement?” followed closely by, “Wow, what is all this excitement about?” And hot on the heels of that thought came the realization that - oh, hey, it’s me. Clearly, I hadn’t made it to the lounge chair in time. I almost fainted again when I heard someone nearby announce excitedly, “The paramedics are on their way!” Fortunately, Robyn’s alter ego, Reggie, took over at that point, holding her hands up and saying, in the manner of one totally in control of the situation and not, as she actually was, freaking the fuck out, “Hold on, hold on – she has a history of fainting. She does this. Let’s just give her a minute.”Â
Moments later another spa employee rolled up with a wheelchair and I really thought I would die. As Brian, Rebecca, and Robyn, my “triangle of support,” discussed how to best transfer me to said wheelchair (sidenote: Rebecca later informed me that it turns out I weigh 250 lbs when unconscious), Robyn casually leaned down and said, in a voice so low not a soul but me could hear, “Wait, before you stand up – did you shit yourself?”Â
Friends, friends. My wish for you is this: I hope you have someone (or three) in your life who, should you ever pass out in a crowded public place wearing only a bikini, will have the foresight to tell your to check yourself in case you wrecked yourself before you stand up in front of a gawking crowd. If you accomplish nothing else in life, let me tell you – this is something.Â
I looked up at her, a little bewildered, and said, “I have no idea.”Â
Spoiler alert: I didn’t shit myself. (Who says I have bad luck?) I was successfully transferred to the wheelchair. Someone (probably Brian) gave me two cups of cold water and told me to put my hands in them, which was surprisingly effective at waking me up. We were whisked off to the “medical room,” which turned out to be a closet housing an industrial ice machine, with an examination table and one folding chair. After reluctantly answering some questions (I was still convinced Brian was a cop – don’t ask me why, maybe lack of oxygen to the brain?), a giant plate of nachos appeared as if by magic and we were escorted via several wrong turns, which meant doubling back to pass curious spa-goers for the third or fourth time, to a small private dining area that was shady and quiet. Brian pushed the wheelchair, Robyn, Rebecca, and Allison followed, and the guy carrying the nachos brought up the rear.
Did I mention, this all took place within half on hour of our arrival? So yeah, kind of put a damper on the hours of unbridled relaxation. 2020 is really not fucking around. (Also, did I mention this is not the first time I fainted at a spa? Last time it was at Burke Williams in Hollywood and I was wearing a bathrobe with nothing underneath when I keeled over in the co-ed waiting room. No triangle of support.)
So, however worried you are about the current state of affairs, just remember – one day we’ll all be back out there in the world, standing within six feet other humans and being grateful we didn’t shit our pants in public. And if we’re lucky, being escorted by a plate of nachos. Â
You’re welcome.Â
My triangle of support - that day, and every day.















