Since I didn't feel up to distasteful chores, like ridding the fridge of foods that had grown moustaches while awaiting the start of yet another diet, I yielded to temptation and headed for the massage room at Mt. Airy Lodge. At this luxurious Pocono Mountain resort, I hoped to renew my spirit and condition my body, or at least to enjoy an hour free from chores and stress.

I found the usually solicitous and efficient masseuse distraught. She deposited as much oil on my hair as on my knotted body, and instead of the gentle relaxing touch I expected, I was kneaded by Attila The Hun.

At the knell of my third resonant, "Ouch!" Peggy apologized and explained, "I'm frantic because my son just called. He's bringing his fiancée to dinner tonight, and it's our first meeting. I won't have time to clean the house, or prepare a nice dinner, or anything." She smacked my shoulder, indicating that our session had ended--ten minutes short of the allotted hour.

"I'm really rushed," she said. "Would you mind if I left now? You can take your time showering and dressing. I'll set the lock so all you have to do is pull the door closed. Don't tell anyone, though, or the manager will kill me." Without waiting for my response, Peggy grabbed her purse and bolted.

Alone and miffed, I tried to relax under the hot, pulsating stream from the showerhead. I scrubbed my back, washed the oil out of my hair, and pushed cuticles back with my fingernail.

Finally, feeling better, I left the solitude and warmth of the shower prepared to tilt with daily demons. It was then I discovered that Peggy had removed my sheet and towel.

Annoyed, I dripped my way to the massage room door to retrieve them, only to find that Peggy had locked the door. I had no access to towels, sheets, my clothes, my handbag, or my car keys. Panic gripped me like a Sumo wrestler.

Feeling as if my naked shoulders were pinned to the mat, I resumed shallow breathing and thought of the exit door to the hall. Would it be unlocked?

Fortunately, it was unlocked from the inside, but a steady stream of male conventioneers flowed past, headed toward elevators, conference rooms, lobby, and bars. I wondered if a man would choose to be a knight in shining humor and go for help, or if he would he opt for the less savory designation of attacker. I decided against pressing my luck. Worse things than green leftovers could happen, and it hadn't been a very fortunate day so far.

Clad only in goose-bumps, I pondered my fate. I hoped that Peggy might realize what she had done and come back, but that was unlikely. Her thoughts were on her son, his fiancée, and their dinner.

I huddled on the cold tile floor in the chill of the air conditioner and wondered if and when anyone would miss me. If they did, it wouldn't help. No one knew where I had gone.

Maybe I'm on Candid Camera, I thought. I checked the room for a camera lens. Actually, I would have welcomed a sneaky camera woman who would unlock the door to my clothes and car keys, but I found none.

I peaked out the hall door again. A linen cart stood abandoned at the end of the long hall. Would there be something in the cart that I could use for cover? Could I make it to the cart before the attendant returned; before conventioneers swarmed down the hall? Would the elevator disgorge passengers just as I was approaching the cart?

Daunting thoughts, but my options are limited. I waited until the coast was clear, took a deep breath,and darted out. I sprinted down the hall toward the cart with thunder-thighs clapping and sagging breasts slapping.

When I was about halfway down the corridor, I discovered that the walls had become windows that overlooked the pool. But with the door locked behind me, I was at the point of no return.

Flushed, flustered, and panting, I ran on to the end of the corridor, where I snatched up a small, soiled, table-topper, the only laundry in the cart. I tried to wrap it around me. A mink coat couldn't have felt better at that moment in time, but a thirty-inch square of cloth called for some decisions. My ample proportions would accommodate either a diaper or a bra, or I could cover for my front or my back, but no way would thirty-inches cover all the goodies.

While struggling with this dilemma and repositioning the wine-stained table-topper, the elevator doors opened. The startled guests, beautifully attired, beheld a dripping, wild-eyed, barefoot apparition, attempting to cover herself with a red-stained cloth. They cowered against the elevator walls, fearing for their lives, or at least for their finery. I squeezed in, and the elevator doors closed, trapping the fashionable guests with the semi-clad lady.

When the elevator reached the lobby, I bolted out, accosted the first person who appeared to work there, and asked for assistance. Unfortunately he didn't speak English. Now I'm no Aphrodite, but he did stop vacuuming.

When I realized the futility of my pleadings, I hurried on to the desk and tried to explain the situation to the startled clerk. He backed away, eyes darting side to side while inching toward the safety of the inner office. I blocked his way, and eventually convinced him to accompany me to the room in which my clothes were locked.

Exhausted and distraught, but finally dressed and liberated, I made my way back to the mustachioed leftovers, which by now looked better to me than Brad Pitt.

I guess everything is a learning experience, and the lesson I took away from this fiasco was, "Never fear a naked lady, she's probably just somebody's mother."