I missed a few days, so I'm catching up in one fell swoop, on a Sunday, while I'm at Prato having some screwdrivers and brunch and watching the Bills play the Patriots, a game that started with a 96-yard TD on opening kickoff, with Damar Hamlin watching from his hospital bed just six days after he collapsed on the field.

His reaction:

With that motivation in mind, let's get to Days 4-7 of the Stoics challenge going, pretty much all of which I'm already doing—yay me!

Day 4: Find someone to teach.

I know using my own kids is kind of a copout, but man, this has been a tough couple of years, and I need to fully concentrate on my daughter to help her get through junior year. She is my sole dedicated mentee.

Day 5: Get your desk in order.

I "decluttered" my phone, computer files, and to-do list right before the new year, as I like to do every year, so I'm on track with this. I need to also work on my "office" (i.e., bedroom), and other rooms in the house as well, but I'll take this as a W.

Day 6: Carve out some leisure time apart from your phone.

This is all about slashing social media use (which I've been doing anyway—no hate-reading Long Island fascists on the weekend, and limiting my use of it to mainly two times a day, not all day long), and I have my creative goals for the year, so I'm good here, too. 

Day 7: Take a self-care day.

I've been doing Jennsday Wednesdays since before the pandemic. I rule.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

Today's Daily Stoic challenge: finding a mentor, teacher, or other ways to up my learning in some subject. Seeking out my own personal Plato, as it were. I'd like to take more photography classes, but I'm not sure yet if I'll have the time over the next few months for an in-person thing. In the meantime, I have access to a MasterClass roster, so I'll do the series on mindfulness, ukulele playing (it's been awhile), or one of the cooking tutorials. We'll see how things pan out.

In other news related to yesterday's post, about getting better sleep: I don't want to demonize naps, or eliminate them completely from my life, because they can be nourishing and good, but I have to get a better handle on how I integrate them. Went out for a Jennsday Wednesday lunch, came back and crashed (still feeling a little under the weather) from 6pm till about 10pm. Now it's almost midnight, I'm wide awake, and tomorrow I'll probably be in a bad sleep cycle again. The difference this time is I'll commit to resetting for next week... or even for Friday! Every day is a new day.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

  

Today's Daily Stoic challenge: quiet quitting. A little different from the trend of quiet quitting, in which you do the bare minimum at work—just enough to stay afloat and not get canned.

This concept is more like cutting out some toxic shit in your life, without having to tell the whole world about it (I know I'm blogging about this, but no one KNOWS I'm blogging about it, at least not in this moment). As today's instructive email details: It's time to decide to get rid of a bad habit, a negative thought pattern, a toxic relationship, something that is poisoning your life.

I've already done that in various ways over the past few months. Finally distanced myself from someone I thought was a friend but who ghosted me the second they no longer needed me as an emotional bridge loan. I'd kept the door open a crack for far too long, hoping maybe there'd be a conversation, an explanation, a desire to reconnect—but sometimes you have to create your own closure, and now I have. Started cutting down on social media intake, in both breadth, frequency, and content (i.e., I'm trying not to soil my weekends and vacations by hate-reading tweets and FB posts of local fascists; that's a workweek activity only now).

But I guess today's exercise is something I'm supposed to do starting today. It's tough, because when I think of my vices, I really, really, really am resistant to letting go, when it comes right down to it. I've apparently got a lot of crutches. At any rate, after thinking for a few minutes, I've decided to excise staying up past midnight on "school nights" (i.e., when I have to work the next day). My sleep habits are horrible, and part of it is that late at night is really my only downtime. But I've got to get some sleep, man—so lights out, phone off, and Calm App activated by 12:00am every night. I'll try for that most of the time, anyway.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

 

I still felt like crap today, so taking it easy on the physical end of things. I also ate three tacos for Taco Monday instead of the two I should have. But for Day 1 of the Stoics challenge (really Day 2, if you count yesterday's cold-shower warmup), the task was to come up with a mantra. Something short and inspiring that you say to yourself every day, multiple times a day, to keep you going when things get tough.

I already kind of do this in various ways. I've been known to say (to both myself and my kids) on some of the worst days: "Tomorrow is a new day." Sometimes it's the only thing that gets me through when the day has been rough, or if I didn't do what I thought I'd do, which is torture for my perfectionist soul. Telling myself I get a do-over on the morrow is soothing.

I also like "amor fati," or "love of one's fate," which is kind of the Daily Stoics mantra. I would even consider getting that as a tattoo. But for this challenge it seems like a cheat. 

So two other top contenders that I like: "Keep fucking going" (I used to have a ring that said this, before I lost it) and "This is the way" (from The Mandalorian). I don't know why I especially like the second one. Maybe because I really liked The Mandalorian, and because it seems saying "this is the way" might offer me encouragement to keep going that way, even if it seems like a tough way, because "this is the way." That's the way I have to go if I want to get to where I want to go. Simple but powerful.

Fuck it, I'm doing both. And just got the hat and ring to match.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

New Year, New Me (Maybe?)

He doesn't usually look this stern.

Looking at the dates on previous posts, I haven't used this blog for nearly four years. But I'm starting 2023 determined to (finally) make some long-desired changes, and an accountability journal of sorts seems to be in order. This won't be great writing or anything, just nonwitty, tired scribblings of my thoughts at the end of each day as I muddle through this.

The past four years have been a shitstorm—marriage upheaval, pandemic, deaths of people I love, child turmoil—and I've managed to tread shit in the process and stay afloat, and we're all generally OK (at the moment), but swimming in shitstorms can take a toll, and it has on me, in myriad ways.

So without belaboring things, I hope to make this the year that I get 'er done—physically, mentally, and creatively. A introduced me to the Daily Stoics, helmed by Ryan Holiday, which taps into the philosophies and life hacks of folks like Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus and others who try to get you to accept that suffering will happen in life, but it's up to you how you get through that. I know that probably sounds like a whole lot of self-help BS that shady people like Anthony Robbins push, but I like the Daily Stoics stuff because it's generally practical advice to get you through the day-to-day and just strive to be a generally better person. 

And so toward that end, I signed up for the Daily Stoics 2023 "New Year, New You" 23-day challenge, which notes that most people start out the new year with the best of intentions, but then crap out a few weeks in. By pointing this fact out, however, they hope to alert participants to keep pushing through when it's uncomfortable. None of this is going to be easy. When that self-awareness is at top of mind, it becomes easier to hold yourself accountable. You know it's gonna suck, but you do it anyway. That's the hope, at least.

Today's "warm-up" challenge: Take an icy water plunge, either in the ocean or a lake, or at least in an ice-cold shower for 23 seconds—the same number of days in this challenge. I could've driven up to Robert Moses to take a dip, but I'm sick and didn't want to go overboard, so I just did the cold shower, after a walk around the neighborhood on a very mild January day. There was lots of cursing (in the shower; not on the walk).

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

Beer Me, Mr. President!

I especially like this image because the custom T-shirt company that owns it has copyrighted text that makes no grammatical sense. Probably Russian bots. 

*Updated February 18, 2019


--> How to read this updated post:
• If you're a Jenn Gidman Super Fan and have already read the previous versions of "Beer Me, Mr. President!": Scroll down and start reading the new stuff added under "New for 2019!"
• If this is your first time reading "Beer Me, Mr. President!": Read the whole damn thing.

It's President's Week — let's talk politics and beer! "But how can you link two such disparate subjects, Jenn?" Let me tell you: I'm going to have (at least) one high-ABV beer tonight (Dogfish's 120 IPA, to be specific). Anything's possible, friends.

Let's start the aggregating. I'd be remiss if I didn't start by mentioning that our erstwhile commander-in-chief enjoys a good quaff now and again. President Obama imbibed his way down the 2012 campaign trail, handily defeating Mitt Romney with his brilliant social-drinking strategy (among other strategic devices). He even debuted a recipe for his own honeylicious White House brew. 

Next we have BuzzFeed's pictorial of presidents drinking beer. Make sure you don't miss the shot about halfway down of the guy dumping a can of hops over Nixon's head. I also found this Reagan photo nestled snugly in Google Images between a pensive George Dubya pounding a pint and Obama drinking what appears to be a luscious Guinness milkshake — go, Gipper!

Clay Risen's article covers ALL of the hooch (not just the beer) found behind past POTUS bars, but it's a fun, quick read. Where else will you come across these words, in this exact order: "Barack Obama doesn't just home-brew beer. He IS a home-brewed beer." Bill Clinton is a "Fresca spiked with old Grand-Dad," in case you're wondering. Mitt Romney is a Shirley Temple.

In October 2014, the New York Post ran a complete list of every president's drink of choice, which contained some interesting facts and more than a few recipes (the "McKinley's Delight" includes absinthe, if you're looking to hit it out of the park at your Presidents Day party).

My favorite post, though, is "The 11th Drunkest Presidents in US History." If you want to know which of our forefathers drank beer for breakfast, which president boasted an "Andre the Giant–like tolerance" to his spirits, and which libation-loving leader headed over to the local distillery every Sunday morning for a 10-gallon jug of whiskey, this is what you should be perusing while you're shoving those greasy eggs down your throat during that Monday-morning hair-of-the-dog thing you do.

Draft magazine tempers it a bit by simply listing the 12 presidents "that would be amazing Oval Office drinking buddies." 

Want to know why they called Rutherford B. Hayes' wife "Lemonade Lucy?" You'll have to read Rick Lyke's rankings of the best and worst presidents for beer. (Hint: She didn't earn her nickname in a Mike's Hard Lemonade kind of way.)

This is a more complete VinePair ranking of all 50 presidents in terms of their booziness, and surprisingly, teeetotaler Donald Trump doesn't come in last.

Don't forget those who feel compelled to drink when they're around presidents. Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg has admitted to throwing a few back not once, but twice right before Obama's State of the Union addresses. This is why we may need to get an RBG tattoo.

In a shoutout to beer snobs everywhere, the definitive proof that George Washington wouldn't be caught dead drinking a Coors Lite can be found here.

There have even been entire political parties formed around beer — including, much to my delight, the Ukrainian Beer Lovers Party, a short-lived totalitarian initiative dedicated to beer and ONLY the beer, comrades. And also to "the awakening and raise of the people's dignitiy through the cultural education." [SIC] 

So drink up. It's what William Howard Taft (the "Bluto of American presidents," according to Risen's analysis) would want you to do. Here are a few presidential/politically themed beers to get you through the long four-day workweek (longer if you have an unpatriotic employer). There were far fewer than I thought there would be, which makes me sad and longing to drink whatever nonpresidential beer I have left in my fridge. If you know of any others that might fit into this category, please let me know for future roundups. 

If you don't trust my admittedly unscientific vetting procedure (typing a slew of SEO-friendly terms into search engines) for these "recommendations," you're on your own for the pilsners and porters you should be pouring down your parched pharynx based on your politics. I'm drunk. Huzzah!

POTUS Potables

Fireside Chat is a spiced English ale usually only available during the holiday season. I've tried it, because I'm a sucker for kindly looking FDRs in pleasing red smoking jackets, but it's not that great. I think an intern stirred it with cousin Teddy's Big Stick. The only thing we have to fear is the beer itself!

I'm too young to personally remember Billy Beer, but this train wreck of a brand endorsed by President Jimmy Carter's hard-partying younger brother was epic. I suspect it wasn't very good, since this Mental Floss story reveals that Billy would get wasted at promotional events for the product and then admit to reporters that he still sucked down PBR at home. I wasn't going to include it in this list, because it's not available for purchase anymore that I know of (except for HERE), but the tale of its spectacular marketing fail will intoxicate you.

What are the 50 most patriotic beers in the US of A? Wouldn't you like to know. (Yes, you would, which is why you will now click on this link to find out.)

Lame, right? But this photo made me laugh, because it looks like the shell has its arm around the beer like they're pals, and Portlandia is on in 10 minutes. Conch!

NEW FOR 2016!

• It's election year, so Mediaite took it upon itself to designate the best beers to throw back with the presidential candidates. This is from September, so many of these guys (and gal) have dropped out, and the list is pretty cheesy, but it fits the narrative I'm trying so desperately to spin.

It me.

• What president would be your best drinking buddy? This quiz will tell you. (I got Obama, FWIW. )

• Some presidents are better than others when it comes to public policy about beer. Spirits writer Rick Lyke makes his pics.

• Guess what I have here, guys? Oh, nothing much. Only what's been described as the "most effervescent item of Washingtoniana in the New York Public Library." NBD. Also known as George Washington's recipe for "small beer." (More on No. 1's porter predilections here.)

• Did you know there was a White House Beer Summit in 2012? Even though supposedly there wasn't a White House Beer Summit in 2012? Well, there are pictures, at any rate. Decide for yourself.

• Behold this animated argument for why presidents should even drink beer—and why it might be a nifty idea to bring beer into Congress.

• You know who brewed a shitload of beer? Thomas Jefferson. And Martha, too, that lush. A rundown of brewery operations at Monticello proves quite fascinating. 

• Getting wasted was one of FDR's favorite pastimes. He also supposedly made the worst martinis in the world. How the heck did he govern and live such a hedonistic lifestyle, you may be asking? This "Portrait of a Drinking President" is well worth a read to answer such questions.

• Brian Abrams wrote a book last year called Party Like a President, and History.com offers a snippet of what's inside. Spoiler alert: Ulysses S. Grant once projectile-vomited onto his horse after one particular episode of excess.

• Finally, the 50 most patriotic beers in 'Murica, per Thrillist. There's even a handy downloadable checklist so you can keep track of your own quaffing. Skål! (Editor's note: Yes, "skål" is my nonsubtle push for Scandinavian-style socialism. Working on my own special Bernie brew....)

NEW FOR 2018!
• Jimmy Carter was the first president to greenlight homebrewing, giving the craft beer industry a major push. I did not know that! 

• Remember that time Grover Cleveland tried to limit his quaffing to four beers a day? Yeah, no one does, because it didn't go too well.

• Gerald Ford's staff would take Air Force One to fly to Colorado, stock up on Coors, and bring it back to DC for him. There's your answer when your kids ask: "What made Ford not a great president?"

• I'm not sure how I never included this Simpsons clip of JFK and Nixon stumping for Duff Beer, but better late than never.

• I missed this one, too, about the Beer Hall of Presidents. I really must be drunk.

NEW FOR 2019!

• "What can an ex-president of the United States do except get drunk" was said by none other than ... well, I don't want to spoil it for you, but it was a past president. Saucey.com rounds up a bunch of drinking quotes from ex-commander in chiefs.

• You won't find me drinking Budweiser except in Desperation Mode (and probably not even then anymore), but if you did, it would probably be this brew based on George Washington's original recipe. Maybe. No promises. I still have standards (I think).

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman. 

Bourdain, Borscht, and Life's Tiny Blisses

My host family, resting after a tough hike in the Carpathians 
and quenching their thirst with natural spring water.

"He taught me early that the value of a dish is the pleasure it brings you; where you are sitting when you eat it—and who you are eating it with—are what really matter. Perhaps the most important life lesson he passed on was: Don't be a snob." Anthony Bourdain, talking about his dad, Pierre Bourdain

Over the past 24 hours, my feeds have been flooded with old interviews, quotes, tributes, and conversations* about everything from mental health issues and suicide prevention to how Anthony Bourdain circumvented stereotypes and opened doors to cultures around the globe, all without being patronizing or indulging in poverty tourism. These are all important topics, and I was going to write something about one or all of those things, but there are already so many good write-ups out there it doesn't seem necessary.

I've been lucky enough to do my own occasional travel down paths unknown, usually on the cheap, and Facebook's "On This Day" has been bombarding me today with images from my trip a year ago to Ukraine. I'm staring at these algorithm-forced memories, and I'm seeing landmarks and landscapes that were amazing to behold, and quite agreeable subjects for my camera. But the most intimate, meaningful times didn't come from those postcard moments.

Instead, they were shared with wonderfully snarky, selfie-taking teens who reminded me of my own over an ice cream cone in front of the Lviv Opera House. Or while splitting a bowl of greasy varenyky with colleagues at the Kyiv train station. Or chatting with my host mother, Natalya, in her kitchen and learning about each other's families over a hearty breakfast rabbit stew or after-school bowl of borscht, of which she knew how to make about 100 exquisite varieties. Or eating till I felt like I'd burst with even more borscht, butter-smeared kielbasa, and stuffed cabbage with Marie and Marianna, teachers in the town of Sambir who graciously opened up their own homes to me. Or drinking sulfur-smelling (but delicious-tasting!) natural spring water from a rusted pipe peeking out of the earth during a hike in the Carpathian Mountains. Or enjoying barbecued sausage, fresh vegetables from the garden, and cold local beer in Natalya and Vasily's backyard at sunset while their 15-year-old nephew Oleg grilled me (it was a barbecue) on American idioms and filled me in on some useful Ukrainian ones so I could surprise the kids in my classes the next day. Or downing Odessa wine and horilka late at night with Vasily while watching Bear Grylls on the Ukrainian version of the Discovery Channel. Or even wolfing down cheeseburgers from the McDonald's on the Maidan, a farewell dinner with new friends from India, the Philippines, and Germany before we headed off later that evening on our separate sleeper cars.

So many people loved Anthony Bourdain because he seemed to be just like us—a down-to-earth, self-effacing, non-pretentious guy who also just happened to be a world traveler living the dream life for our viewing pleasure. But I think it's been distressing for many to realize that he was also just like us in a different way: often struggling internally, putting on a happy (or happier) face to the world, fighting off demons that no one really knew the extent of. If he couldn't be happy living the life he led, what chance could there be for the rest of us?

I don't know the answer to that. But what Anthony Bourdain was always trying to tell us, I think, is that we can also be just like him, our much-lighter wallets notwithstanding. The tiny blisses that can help many of us get through the day-to-day drudgery are accessible, simple, and within reach, and if you can throw food into the mix, do it—it's hard not to bond when edible treats are involved. 

Make s'mores with the kids, throw a backyard barbecue with the neighbors, meet a friend for lunch at a local eatery you've never tried (and please be extra-nice to the staff), pick a tomato from the garden and eat it like an apple without even washing it (ew, I know, but also—yum!). Shit, even start a conversation with a stranger during the lunch rush at McDonald's. If the back-and-forth is good, the McNuggets will be, too. (OK, maybe that last part on the nuggets is a reach, but you get the gist.)

All it takes to suss out this particular type of joy is a willingness to be open to new dishes and new friends, generous, and appreciative of the moment. And to not be a snob.**

* A couple of my favorites from around the 'Nets:

https://blogsofwar.com/anthony-bourdain-talks-travel-fo…/…/…

https://www.thenation.com/article/bourdain-gave-us/

** I'm also not offering this up as some kind of Pollyanna-ish panacea. I know some of us are dealing with deeper stuff that can't be remedied with a fresh-baked pie. But in the meantime, if something can help us mitigate the day-to-day, I say we go for it.

Tweets and treats at @jenngidman.

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.