“Natalie?” I got up from the spa waiting room and introduced myself to the woman who would be my masseuse for the next 50 minutes. The spa in question was an oasis of citrus smells and calming sounds stuck in the middle of the suburban sprawl, a necessity for ladies who lunch, wealthy housewives, and overworked office drones with clipped coupons and stockpiled gift cards. As I followed the masseuse through the obscenely serene spa, she chatted with me. “So when was the last time you had a massage?” she asked, as if she were a doctor inquiring about my last menstrual cycle. “Um, I think it was about a…