Self-care is a fantasy in my world. Fingers cramping on a laptop. Back bent over mixing consoles and conference tables. Shoulders in knots, eyes red, skin dry. The concierge knows what I need before I ask. I roll up to the luxury West Hollywood spa: deep tissue, rejuvenating facial, body detox. They even did my nails. Did I mention chilled champagne and chocolate-dipped strawberries? An hour later, I’m not even the same person. Next time, I might have them come to my room.