Last month, I met a celebrity at a fancy hotel spa. Well, "met" is generous—we exchanged the kind of polite smile you'd give a fellow patron in line at the pharmacy. But in the hierarchy of celebrity encounters, this ranks somewhere between "accidentally stepped on Bradley Cooper's foot" and "shared an elevator with someone who was definitely on a local access TV commercial once."

I allow myself certain luxuries now, which feels like playing dress-up in someone else's life. This particular indulgence involves staying at one of those Chicago hotels where the towels are heavier than sourdough bread and the concierge knows 4 languages and that my German is A2 level at best. Last year, I celebrated my 40th birthday there with three friends—dinner, drinks, massages, the full bourgeois fantasy. This time was business-related, but I still snuck down to the spa for what they diplomatically called a "Himalayan restoration experience."

You know it's fancy when everything rubbed on your body comes with provenance. The CBD oil was lovingly harvested by a man who discovered cannabis after a life-changing accident—because apparently my shoulder tension requires a redemption arc. The singing bowls were designed to "center your chi," and the pumice stones promised to "reticulate the splines" of my very essence. I nodded along like someone who definitely knows what all of this means, when really I just wanted my neck to stop feeling like I'd slept like a collapsed marionette for six hours. Which, to be fair, I had.

The truth is, I still feel caught between worlds: the poverty of my youth and the relative comfort of my current life. I live frugally by most measures, but I indulge in the specific things I couldn't have when I wanted them most. At twelve, I slunk into school wearing my mom's stirrup pants well into the '90s, fantasizing about No Excuses jeans while my classmates had moved on to whatever came after No Excuses jeans. (Probably something equally regrettable like JNCO jeans, but with the crucial distinction of being regrettable now instead of regrettable then.)

These days, if I want to follow a trend, it's as simple as buying a Stanley Cup tumbler. I won't—I'm ride-or-die Team Yeti. But the point is I could. Still, every luxury purchase comes with a small voice asking, Is this okay?

And then I ran into an Oscar winner in terry cloth, and the voice quieted down.

I emerged from my massage in the required bathrobe uniform, clutching my complimentary champagne like a talisman of belonging. In the dim recovery lounge, a woman sat with her teenage daughter, both in matching spa robes and glowing with that post-massage serenity that costs $300 an hour. The woman had her phone out—technically against the rules—but I'm not the spa police, and frankly, celebrities operate under different bylaws.

As soon as she spoke, I knew. Her face is unmistakable if you've spent any portion of the last four decades consuming popular culture. I glanced over casually—the kind of look you'd give someone whose babbling non-stop in a darkened theater but don't want to lecture them—and confirmed what I already knew.

In person, stripped of red carpet armor, she was strikingly beautiful an effortless way that makes us mere mortals insecure in our skincare regiments. What struck me most was how normal she looked, which I promise isn't meant as an insult. She looked like someone you might see shopping at Target -- if Target shoppers regularly won Academy Awards and had access to personal trainers.

After a few minutes, she and her daughter headed to the saunas. Before leaving, we made eye contact, and she smiled—nothing performative, just human acknowledgment between two people in ridiculous bathrobes. I smiled back, calibrating my expression to convey "fellow spa patron" rather than "person who is mentally trolling through your filmography right now."

I could have followed them to the sauna area. The thought crossed my mind with the same impulse as wondering what if I just didn't show up to work tomorrow. But I'm not quite that brand of unhinged, and she was clearly off-duty, enjoying time with her family. Celebrities in the wild deserve the same consideration we'd want—the luxury of being unremarkable.

So I showered, dressed, and returned to my room with nothing but this story. No photo evidence, no name-dropping, no social media proof of my brush with fame. Just the quiet satisfaction of a moment when two people in overpriced bathrobes acknowledged each other's humanity.

Which, when you think about it, might be the most luxurious thing of all.