Massages, facial treatments, spa sessions and new age music were not in the lexicon back in The Bronx.

Aches and pains? “Recovery Period”? Ha. Walk it off. Suck it up. Pop some aspirin. Ice it. Heat it. Maybe — maybe — if you were fancy-pants you soaked post-football bones in Epsom salts.

So it was with great trepidation that I recently spent 40 minutes in “the waters” during a mini-vacation with friends in Saratoga Springs, 180 miles north of Fordham Road.

I mean, were “the waters” just a lot of hype? What would it do, other than chew through 40 minutes on a gloriously sunny summer’s day?

And, was it communal? Was it private? Would I have to wear a swimsuit, or go nakey? Was it hot? Cold? Was it pandemic proof?

My wife and her friend booked the appointment but had no answers for me as I nervously eyed the rows of pines beside the roadway in Saratoga park grounds. We passed one sturdy brick out-building after another as we wound our way to the Roosevelt Bath House.

We arrived on-time for our treatments. I wore swimming trunks and had a change of clothes with me in my Bronx Luggage. That is, a Garden Gourmet shopping bag.

We then got a 30-second overview from a tiny woman who had the pallor and paunch of the industrious three-pack-a-day, Busch Beer imbiber. With a cheery, if broken, smile, she led me to a private chamber reminiscent of a high-ceiling, subway-tiled treatment room in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

“Here’s the tub,” my guide said. Yeah, no duh. It was huge and a bit high-walled. “It’s deeper than you think. Be careful. And there’s the bathroom, and if you need to cool off, here’s a glass of water and there’s the cold water tap. See you in 40 minutes.”

So where do I rinse off? “Oh, you don’t,” she said. “You’ll feel your skin tingle and feel softer and smoother.” I was unconvinced but, like, whatever, being “far from the shallow now” as Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper would have sung.

The attendant lady left. I took off my Dickie’s pocket-tee shirt and swim trunks and kicked off my Keens shoes. The tub was filled with what looked like rusty, bubbly bilge water. I wondered how far we were from the toxic liquids of New York’s Love Canal.

I put one foot inside the tub, and then the other. I slowly sat down and issued an Archimedes “eureka!” as the water rose precariously close to the brim of the tub. I slid back with great care.

The water was justthisclose to hot. I looked up at the ceiling. New age music was piped in from…somewhere.

I looked around. The walls of the tub had brown corrosion of a color that gave me great pause. Tiny bubbles burst around my body. I closed my eyes and silenced the inner voice that shouted “this is silly”.

The steady-state ache in my left knee soon disappeared. The stiffness in my lower back dissipated. My skin felt softer. Not greasy or oily or salty, but somehow more supple.

I let my mind wander and my imagination tumbled about like newly-laundered clothes in a dryer set to “delicates”.

I snapped my fingers, as Archimedes might have done, as I came up with a name for this experience: Aqua Opiates.

I made the water a little cooler. I took a sip of water. I closed my eyes. In no time, there was a tap tap tapping at my chamber door. It wasn’t a raven. It was the kindly attendant with a heated, soft and fluffy blue towel.

“When you’re dressed you can meet your party in the Relaxation Room down the hall,” she said.

Calmed, clean, pain-free and, now, dry, I dressed and ambled over. There was a peaceful waterfall and soft New Age music. Double-wide cushy seating. A table with apples and photos of guests from years gone by. Oh no! I thought. Is this really the Overlook Hotel?

There, in the corner, was my wife, who waved me over. And sitting nearby were our friends. I looked around the Relaxation Room. I guess it was as expected: the other guests, newly exfoliated, jabbed at their smart phones, texting, scrolling, catching up with work, remotely, from the Roosevelt Bath House in the end-stage of this, The Age of Covid.

But me? I’m hooked on Aqua Opiates. More please.