Hedonism, therapy, or masochism? Michael Kinsley submits himself to a six-day bicoastal spa binge. And survives, just

I am strapped to a table in a semi-darkened room. Lush, vapid New Age music plays in the background. Two women enter carrying jars of warm peanut butter, one creamy and one crunchy (the peanut butter, that is—don't be vulgar). The women begin slathering the peanut butter on me while one recites passages from Dr. Seuss and the other explains, "This is your Inner Child Recovery Dermal Scrub and Wash. It's a technique we've developed here at the institute based on ancient Mayan puberty rituals, traditional Freudian psychology, and cutting-edge nutritional research. By applying childhood comfort foods to different parts of your body, we reawaken dormant cells and stimulate the seventeenth mishegoss, which connects the space behind the ear flap to emotions about parents and children. Cream of Wheat is also an excellent natural skin moisturizer." Suddenly, dozens of nozzles in the ceiling come alive with a spray of orange soda, and I wake up.

It was just a dream. Where am I? I am in a warm pool overlooking a dramatic landscape of giant red rocks. Lush, vapid New Age music plays in the background. My head rests on the chest of a woman I have never seen before as she walks through the water, swinging me rhythmically in circles and figure eights. "This is called a watsu massage," she says. "It combines water therapy with the principles of shiatsu." And then I wake up.

But I really am in that pool overlooking those rocks, resting in the strong arms of a nice woman stranger who swings me around like a lasso in accordance with some amalgam of science and mysticism. And in the past few days, I have been slathered with every unguent short of peanut butter, been submerged and sprayed in innovative ways, listened to lectures and chants ranging from sensible to incomprehensible, been rubbed with hands and with rocks—all accompanied by New Age music (the only constant), and all in the name of luxury.

Fifteen years ago, for Condé Nast Traveler, I imagined myself as a 30-something yuppie investment banker with more money than time and took an 80-hour world tour, stopping at as many destinations as possible ("Around the World in 80 Hours," December 1988). By now, though, our yuppie friend would be 50-something, probably married, still with more money than time, but possibly more interested in pampering and relaxation. Possibly (like me) he had heard about fancy spas but had never been to one, had never even had a professional massage. Possibly (like me) he now had a wife with some spa experience and formidable spa enthusiasm. With her help and companionship, could he cram a lifetime of spa experience into six days—and enjoy it?

Our six-day spa crawl took us from Canyon Ranch in Massachusetts's Berkshires (a branch of the famous institution in Arizona) to Los Angeles (where spas are trickling down from luxury hotels to strip mall storefronts) to Sedona (where every gas station attendant and real estate agent is a licensed shiatsu practitioner with a rich variety of former lives dating back many centuries). We even got a massage while changing planes in the Detroit airport (where the knowledge that you were on your way out of Detroit was once thought to be relaxing and invigorating enough).