Suck It, Walt Disney: Why I Froze Myself in Liquid Nitrogen for My Birthday

GTFO.

Each year around my birthday, I celebrate my mom's long-ago labor pains by planning something outside of my comfort zone, mainly to crush my weltschmerz (new word, showing off) and bust myself out of ruts both trivial and fathomless. Sometimes I go big—last year I forced my introverted self to Eastern Europe to teach English—but most times, due to finances, employment logistics, and desired proximity to my kids, I explore prospects closer to home.

I happened to have three days of comp time banked at work, so I started scouring the Internet and my own brain (you never know what repressed resources you might find there!) and ended up discovering a tantalizing trifecta within a 10-mile radius to home base: cryotherapy, sensory deprivation, and halotherapy. No worries, that last one has zero to do with attaining angel status—I'm still on-brand.

Phase 1: Cryotherapy

What it is:

Exposing your body to system-shocking liquid nitrogen vapors set to a bone-chilling minus 250 degrees for a period of two to three minutes ("they" say it's not safe to go beyond that; "I" believe "them").

What it's supposed to do:

Reduce aches and pains, alleviate stress, and burn calories, among other perks.

My experience:

This was the part of my holistic journey that gave me the most agita. In my pre-cryo research, I dug up thumbs-up studies cited by NIMH (cool, in both a literal and practical sense), but also a few horror stories, including one of a woman who hadn't made it out of the cryo tank alive (more chilling than cool). More than one website mentioned the "f" word ("fatal") if a patient went beyond a few minutes in the chamber. 

The liability waiver I'd spied online before my session didn't mitigate my anxiety. Although I hadn't ever suffered from any of the maladies listed therein, I was more than convinced that my lingering heart murmur, the gestational diabetes I'd last experienced 12 years ago, or my general malaise (shut up, Laura) would work in tandem with the frosty vapors and do me in.

When I arrived at the venue, shoehorned into the corner of a nondescript Long Island strip mall next to Sushi Palace, my nerves were somewhat soothed by the relaxed, cheerful ambiance within, replete with smoothie machines, a workout room, and shelves crammed with nutritional supplements and glowing amethyst clusters. A preternaturally energetic attendant named Tara (I know her name was Tara because she later sent me an e-receipt that said, "Thanks for coming—Tara!") led me into a prep room illuminated by lime-green Christmas lights.

It was here where I was instructed to strip down to my skivvies and adorn my still-98.6-degree body in a white robe, compression socks, green Crocs (they like green here), and enormous wool mittens:

Some of my cryo attire.

I looked ridiculous, but Tara explained it was important to protect the extremities from freezing. I've seen my fair share of Shackleton documentaries; her advice seemed sound.

Tara left me alone to stare down the machine as it was "warming up." I resisted the urge to say, "Don't you mean cooling down?!," because I didn't want to be that customer. 

Anyway, here is the machine:

I studied said machine carefully. One of the warnings on the waiver I'd just signed was to keep your head over the swirling eddy of liquid-nitrogen fog during your session so you didn't huff it and pass out. I spent a good 10 minutes overthinking the ways in which I'd have to contort my body and swivel my head to fend off asphyxiation.

Tara finally came back and instructed me to hop into the machine and discard the robe. After asking for my reluctant go-ahead, she flipped the switch to activate the machine, chatting away while my body was slammed with sub-zero smog. I was surprised to find it was a pleasantly dry deep freeze that felt, in a good way, like my skin was being seared. More accurately, it felt like someone was smothering me with Vicks VapoRub, or perhaps a giant York Peppermint Pattie.

As Tara inquired about my daily habits to suss out the reasons for my geriatric-level creakiness, I confessed to my Quasimodo-like, hunched-over-the-computer work posture, leading to a helpful tip Tara had heard on the John Tesh radio show, which until that moment I hadn't known existed: Always sit with your ears directly over your shoulders. By the time I'd had time to contemplate and place that Tesh tidbit deep within my mental reserves for future retrieval, the cryotherapy session was over.

How I felt afterward:

I once half-heartedly tried to freeze myself to death in the snow, à la The Shining, during a low period when I was 16, drunk at a house party, and irrationally pissed at my friends, as tends to happen when you're 16, engaged in typical teen drama, and can't hold your liquor. 

I definitely felt better after this than after that. Refreshed and, yes, not as achy and painy as I'd been going in, though how much of that was a placebo effect remains unclear. I also felt relief that I was still among the living and didn't shatter like Ted Williams' head. I was so impressed with my ability to withstand the liquid-nitrogen machine that I drove with the window down along the entire route to my next stop, exposing my body to free 44-degree self-medication.

Would I do it again?

Yes, but only for the Groupon price of $23 (the regular price is $75, which is kind of steep for a two-minute chillaxing regimen).

Phase II: Sensory Deprivation

What it is:

Entering a soundproof tank and immersing your body in 10 inches of body-temperature water saturated with 850 pounds of Epsom salts (rendering it more buoyant than the Dead Sea), then floating in complete darkness and silence for 90 minutes.

What it's supposed to do:

Get you to relax so completely that you enter a Theta or Delta resting state, alleviating stress and anxiety, increasing circulation, and spurring creativity. The guy who opened the floating facility told me his wife suffers from Lyme disease and that he'd started the business after she frequented a similar floating facility and felt much better afterward. 

Some aficionados, per the facility's website, are said to have "developed complex scientific theories and drafted whole portions of books while floating." I need to hit it big soon; I was hopeful.

My experience:

I took a very enjoyable hot shower in a well-appointed prep area, as instructed, before my immersion:

Then I entered the floating chamber, as seen here before the lights dimmed:

Once inside the tub, I was able to turn the lights out with the press of a button, and my 90 minutes of ultimate relaxation commenced. My hopes were almost immediately dashed when, after being instructed not to touch my face under any circumstances after immersing my hands in the extra-salty water, I instinctively touched my face three minutes in to scratch an itch. I experienced an ocular burning unlike any I've ever felt previously (and you're talking to someone who has, on more than one occasion, accidentally flicked Colgate into her sockets and/or rubbed her eyes after dicing jalapenos).

It took about five minutes for that particular agony to dissipate, after which I approached my float with renewed determination to loosen up and organically evolve, like a brackish Pokémon, into the next Stephen Hawking or Jane Austen. And yet. And yet....

First, full disclosure that I'm a side sleeper. It's almost impossible for me to doze off flat on my back, and dreamily bobbing in magnesium sulfate didn't magically allow for a triumphant Sandman entrance. My head and neck kept tensing up as I anticipated the inevitable drowning that actually wasn't inevitable (it was literally impossible to sink, even if you fell asleep), and my body kept distractingly bumping into the sides of the tank.

Plus, because my insomnia-prone mind is schooled at finding kinks in the system during interminable moments of darkness, I soon tracked down the tiny crack in the ceiling that allowed a nearly imperceptible amount of light to creep in, which, because I didn't have my glasses on, resembled a blurry constellation—a not-unlovely visual, had it not been for the stated principle of immersion in complete darkness. Someone also started vacuuming in some distant room about midway through my session, nullifying the promise of a completely soundproof experience.

I didn't want to waste my time here, though, so I tried to at least get those creative juices flowing. I pretended I was an astronaut, training for the rigors of the cosmos. I made believe I was the amphibious creature from The Shape of Water, waiting for Michael Shannon to emerge from the far end of the tub and shoot me. I channeled Joaquin Phoenix from You Were Never Really Here, a movie I'd seen just a day earlier, my pockets filled with rocks yet unable to sink. I imagined Pennywise luring me into the murky depths, whispering, "You'll float, too." I made an extremely briny lemonade out of the lemons I'd been dealt.

How I felt afterward:

Glad when the 90 minutes was up, because I was incredibly bored and disappointed I hadn't drawn out the transcendent feeling I was supposed to. I had written nothing in my head except bitter haikus against all who have wronged me. I was a floating failure.

Would I do it again?

Probably not, though maybe next time I'd know what to expect and could better mentally prepare. I'd likely skip the three cups of coffee beforehand, too.

Phase III: Halotherapy

What it is:

Zoning out in a zero-gravity chair in a re-creation of a Himalyan cave as tiny particles of pink salt are blasted into your lungs.

What it's supposed to do:

Purge your respiratory system and better the "turgor" of your skin.

My experience:

I follow a flamboyant chef on Instagram nicknamed "Salt Bae," a personality who's made an art form of sorts out of elegantly flicking table-ready NaCl onto slabs of meat, fish, and an assortment of other edibles. I envisioned this exact thing happening, but to my lungs, while I snoozed to New Age music and tried to politely ignore my other cavemates (there are three other chairs besides your own in the salt cave):

As I settled into my reclined seat (comfortably on my side this time), I imagined my name was Mildred and I was convalescing in Saratoga Springs after a distressing bout of gout, a fantasy that helped me drift off to sleep while being serenaded by Native American flute tunes and David Arkenstone melodies. I blacked out despite my sole cavemate—a salty (haha), weathered Long Island woman who could've been 30 or 70, and who instructed me to hit her if she snored—grinding gravel throughout the entire 45 minutes. I haven't had that nice of a nap since before my kids were born.

How I felt afterward:

Fully rested, though I'm not sure I can say I experienced any enhanced respiratory functioning or a less-distressed epidermis afterward. 

Would I do it again?

Maybe/probably, though not for full price ($50).

I don't regret my celebratory mind-body experiment, but I've got better plans in store. Summer is coming, which means I'll be heading to the beach to derive all of the same palliative benefits offered by therapies halo, cryo, and senso. Blast me with that complimentary salt air. Dunk me under the body-numbing waves until I can't feel my toes or torso. Bombard my brain with that mind-soothing surf that knocks me out better than an Ambien. Besiege and batter my senses until I remember nothing.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

Yuletide Tomfoolery 2017

Watching this Stranger Things scene with Dustin 
while "Time After Time" was playing made me weep.

It's Mind Mush time*, meaning that time of year when I turn my brain off, force my kids to spend more time with me, and indulge in music, movies, TV, books I haven't had time to read, and navel gazing in general. It also typically coincides with a welcome, temporary removal of myself from social media, which I'm increasingly convinced has exacerbated everyone's dumbness and should be shot down by a Kim Jong Un ICBM. Of course, I'll probably go back in January, because I'm just a part of the machine now....

In the meantime, some stuff I've been watching, sometimes written with a writer's flair, sometimes while I'm tired and/or self-medicated and don't care. If you can tell the difference, more power to you. And go ahead, count how many paragraphs start with some variation of "I." I already told you: navel gazing.

Stranger Things (Season 2)

There aren't that many shows that are even better in the second season than the first, but this one makes the list. I don't have much to add beyond what others better qualified than I have already said, but I cried during the finale, maybe because of: 

• That final middle-school-dance scene playing all of the music I would've been listening to during that time period, because I am THE EXACT SAME AGE AS THE STRANGER THINGS kids;

• I currently have two children in middle school;

• Everything feels like a Mind Flayer mind-fuck these days;

• A touching storyline on various relationships;

• How great all of the child actors are in this show;

• Winona Ryder.

Lemon

I don't have much to say about this one, except it's got Brett Gelman, who starred in this season's Stranger Things, and this scene, which I've watched about 500 times. With each watch, you'll want to focus your attentions on a new character. The sister flipping her hair around like Cher is gold, and I emulate her every chance I get.

Wrong Cops

I was coerced into this movie, and I can't say it was the worst movie I ever saw, and I can't say I didn't laugh during parts, and I can't say I was ever bored, and I can't say I wasn't intrigued at seeing Marilyn Manson without makeup, but...well, here's the trailer.

Also of note: Quentin Dupieux's music in this film, and his others, apparently. German techno/Eurotrash/something that I can't stop listening to.

Lucky Logan

I'm a big Channing Tatum fan, surprisingly and maybe distressingly (watch his musical number in Hail, Caesar!), and I really liked the first half of this movie. But I think I compared this brothers-as-ne'er-do-wells narrative too much with Hell or High Water, which was pretty amazing, and lost interest about halfway through. I'd still recommend it, though. It wasn't like it was bad or anything. 

Jim and Andy

Every once in a while, when I'm feeling an inexplicable melancholy, I'll tweet about Andy Kaufman, because I feel like only his radiance, only the surprise of his stunning return could break us out of the ennui and despair and rage we're mired in, especially of late. This movie, which was culled from archive footage shot nearly 20 years ago when Jim Carrey played Kaufman in Man on the Moon, was a small slice of that joy that Kaufman himself once brought. I still harbor a secret hope that we're all, in a Carrey-esque twist, in The Truman Show, and that at any moment Christof is going to flip a switch, Andy will be back, and all of the ugliness will disappear.

Also: Other than a few Beatles and Pink Floyd albums, I've probably listened to REM's Automatic for the People more than any other album I own. Mostly in 1992 and 1993, but also in several patches beyond that. Including this week.

Joan Didion: The Center Will Not Hold

This was a good movie, but one line stands out to me in particular. Current-day Joan, being interviewed by nephew Griffin Dunne for this movie, says: "I don't know what 'fall in love' means. It's not part of my ... world."

This is one of the saddest things I've ever heard in a movie, documentary or otherwise, especially once you realize as you watch the film that she indeed felt great love (for both her husband and her daughter), but not the falling-in-love part.

Guess that means I subscribe to that "better to have loved and lost" thing after all.

The Trip to Spain

I first witnessed Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon interact in Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story. I enjoyed that interaction. I was therefore all in for The Trip and The Trip to Italy, which are part travelogue, part comedic nonsense, part impression fest, part foodie fetish, and part cinematographic masterpiece.

I still enjoyed Trip to Spain, for all of those reasons, but I found my mind drifting more in this one. It seemed drearier, sadder, meaner, especially in regard to Steve Coogan's character, which just seemed steeped in bitterness and envy. Maybe he was portrayed the same way in the previous two films and I didn't notice? 

Mother!

First two-thirds: creepy, claustrophobic, the impetus for me to say "WHY THE FUCK IS THIS MOVIE SO POLARIZING THIS IS AMAZING ARONOFSKY IS A GENIUS."

Last third: Jury's still out.

Wrong

A prequel to Wrong Cops that wasn't nearly as charming, if that's the right word. Even the Quentin Dupieux score was meh. I did enjoy the scenes in which the main character went every day to work at a travel agency in an office perpetually caught in a downpour, reminiscent of the office scene from Joe Versus the Volcano. 

Dunkirk

One of my favorite movies of all time is Memento, though other Christopher Nolan movies have been hit or miss for me. I'm not usually naturally drawn to war movies, but when I heard everyone saying this was Nolan's best movie ever, I figured I'd better check it out.

And it was really good. Beautifully shot, with appropriately poignant but non-treacly moments and Nolan's usual messing around with the concept of time. I'm not sure it will stick with me as being particularly memorable years down the road, but I'd agree it was pretty masterfully put together. I think my hesitation comes from any lack of emotional connection with the characters, who (purposely) weren't given much dialogue and backstory. Some say that detracted from the film, some say it was a plus, and I can see both sides—but in the end my heart has already moved on.

I, Tonya

Meanwhile, here's a film that unexpectedly ripped my heart apart. Not because I was completely swayed by the sympathetic portrayal given to Tonya Harding's culpability in this movie—I'd love to know what Nancy Kerrigan, who says she hasn't seen the film yet, thinks about it—but because it touched on issues of classism that struck an uncomfortable chord. If you've ever felt the sting of snobbery-induced ostracization, along with that furious pride that wells up inside of you when you're subjected to such things, you'll get this movie. That sting never quite leaves you, even when you think you've long forgotten it; it bubbles right back up to the surface with something as simple as a raised eyebrow or a snide laugh. Plus, Margot Robbie's depiction of Harding was stunningly fierce and heartbreaking. She captured all of that pain perfectly.

Star Wars: The Last Jedi

Christmas week-serviceable. And with just the right hit of feels, partly due to seeing Carrie Fisher on screen one last time, partly from having watched this franchise and grown old with it since I was 6 years old, and partly from that dose of comfort and nostalgia offered by the opening credits and the score and the characters and the reminder of a time when things seemed much simpler and better. Even if they really weren't—the mind plays magnificent tricks.

The Disaster Artist

I've seen The Room a few times, and this biopic has seen pretty decent reviews, so it seemed wise to watch it. It didn't totally bowl me over, but James Franco was great and weird, as usual (and as required for this flick), and the closing credits, in which scenes from this movie's version of The Room were shown alongside scenes from the original, were gold.

Lady Bird

I've already said my brief piece on this on Twitter; here's the thread.

Call Me by My Name

This was a beautifully done movie, and it had such a familiar feel to it, and then I realized it was directed by Luca Guadagnino, who directed A Bigger Splash, which I "reviewed" in last year's movie roundup. Meaning it had a lot of languages being spoken and a lot of al fresco dining.

Like I said, beautifully done in building up the sexual/romantic tension between two people falling for each other and experiencing different sexual awakenings of sorts. I especially appreciated the unusual choice made in filming the closing credits—a closeup of our hero, Elio, crying in front of the fire, while daily activity takes place in soft focus behind him. It's kind of hard to explain here, but it was an odd, exquisite way to end the movie. 

This film also had striking similarities to Lady Bird, which I'd seen just a couple of days earlier, in that:

• The protagonist is a precocious teen with a close paternal relationship

• A teen girl gets to suck it up and comfort her beau when she discovers he's gay

• Timothée Chalamet, whom Lady Bird loses her virginity to in her namesake film, plays Elio in this one, which I didn't realize until the end of the movie.

Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri

Frances McDormand is always terrific, and the rest of the acting here (Sam Rockwell, Woody Harrelson) was also on point. It was an engaging movie, and I love ambiguous endings like the one offered here. 

Just not so sure I'm into using police brutality against African-Americans as a cinematic prop for a racist's bildungsroman—and that's what it really was, as Sam Rockwell's adult character was explained as having been stunted somehow when his father died and he descended into alcoholism and torturing blacks and throwing people out of windows and...well, no worries, he's good in the end, and we never circle back to the bigger problem of police brutality in the community (though I guess that's ostensibly solved by the arrival of Clarke Peters to take over the Ebbing PD). Speaking of which: I could watch an entire movie based on the character played by Clarke Peters.

The Florida Project

This movie hasn't been getting as much blatant hype as some of the splashier awards contenders—Three Billboards, The Shape of Water, Call Me by Your Name—but there's been lots of rumbling in quieter circles how this could qualify as the best picture of the year. So I had high expectations, and they were mostly fulfilled, from a technical point of view, but I was pretty tired when I watched it, and so my mind drifted more than the film deserved. I also found I was getting anxious at all of the scenes where the kids were acting up, because my own son at that age was a bit of a maniac, and this brought all of that flooding back.

That said, I thought the final scene was pretty astounding. It really threw me, because the director did an amazing job at making its little star Brooklynn Prince precocious and wild and in your face, to the point you almost forgot her age, and her vulnerability. Which is why when she bursts into tears at the very end talking to her best friend, it was completely unexpected and raw and authentic and tore my heart in two. Yes, I was manipulated; good job, everyone. That was followed up by a lovely, fantastical escape by Moonee and her BFF to Disney World, with part of me saying (having been to Disney about 50 million times and knowing the security systems in place there), "Yeah, no, that wouldn't have happened"—but then part of me saying, "Just go with it, you jerk," and that's the part that won.

I should also give a shoutout to Caleb Landry Jones, who plays the son (?) of hotel manager Willem Dafoe. Everyone has been talking about Fargo's Michael Stuhlbarg as hitting a huge triple this year for his co-starring turns in Call Me by Your Name, The Shape of Water, and The Post. But Jones should also get some recognition: He was in Get Out, Three Billboards, and now this movie. He still creeps me out a little (mostly because of Get Out), but I guess that means he just did his job super-well in Get Out.

Brawl in Cell Block 99

Weirdo movie alert! I can't say I wasn't entertained, but I don't know I'd necessarily recommend this movie to most people. Not that it's bad or anything. Sample line: Junkie says to Vince Vaughn's character, "Why don't you let me put a smile on your nuts." His reply: "No thanks. I don't want anyone to see their braces."

As long as you know that's what you're getting into, you'll probably be good with this movie. Also, he destroys a car with his bare hands.

The Shape of Water

This was a lovely, old-fashioned, fantastical, beautiful, girl-meets-amphibian love story that is strangely forgettable. I really liked it while watching it, and everyone was really excellent in it—and Michael Shannon!—but I'm a little disappointed it wasn't more of what I maybe expected. Which was something more than what I got.

The Darkest Hour

Is it bad I was kinda with Halifax on this one? Look, Gary Oldman is one of the best actors around, and he disappeared into the role (though criticism that he was hamming it up and helped along by an amazing makeup job is...valid). The movie was an interesting watch, too, especially on the heels of seeing Dunkirk a few weeks back. My lovefest for Oldman, though—which rivals only my ardor for, say, Ralph Fiennes—has been marred somewhat by allegations I've been hearing about him in real life that I must have missed somewhere along the way. It's disappointing, and no, it doesn't mean he's still not an amazing actor, but yes, it means I feel less inclined to gush about him and feel excited about things he's in.

The Post

This is one of those movies where I go in thinking "Who wants to see yet another Meryl Streep and/or Tom Hanks movie?" and yet leave thinking "Meryl Streep and Tom Hanks are really good!" Good in that hammy, occasionally overacting way (Streep especially), but still good. It was a solid film, but nothing that sticks in my cranium.

Phantom Thread

The last movie of the Oscar-nominated "best picture" potentials, and in the end my favorite. I had some problems during the initial hour—why would any self-respecting woman stay with this jerk?!—but the movie was so meticulous, tightly wound, and detailed, and hilarious, and wicked, and it takes such a swerve at the end, that it ended up delighting me after all.

A Futile and Stupid Gesture

I knew a little bit about Doug Kenney before going into this, but not nearly as much as I should have, so this was an entertaining, captivating way to get the lay of the Kenney land. But it was hard for me to get past Will Forte in the lead role, maybe because I kept seeing him as Tandy from Last Man on Earth? Anyway, I guess I should also reveal my low-browness and admit I've seen Animal House and Caddyshack way too many times—not even because I think they're necessarily great movies, but because they were there growing up (Animal House was the only movie my aunt and uncle, the first in our family to own a VCR, had on VHS tape, back when VHS tapes cost like $60 each, so that's all my brothers and I would watch when we visited) and somehow became burned into my synapses and so now evoke some nostalgia-induced anesthetic that always makes me feel good when I watch them.

* Updates to come as I watch/do more things, in the order in which I watch/do them.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.