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:
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).
Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.
