When my husband grimaced and started talking about Steph Curry before handing me my Mother’s Day gift I knew I was in for it. Sometimes he likes to stray from the typical gift card/flowers/candy combo and that’s usually when things get interesting. This year I got a gift certificate to a local float therapy spa and, let’s just say, things definitely got interesting.
You may be asking yourself, what is float therapy and why is this chick’s husband making her do it?
Well, A.) Float therapy is, um, I don’t know how to clinically describe it. You’re in a pod thing. It’s filled with super salty water. You can shut the top so there’s no sound or light. It’s like they put a tiny saltwater pool in the back of a Honda hatchback, but way cleaner and more 2001: A Space Odyssey. You know, I’m really not selling this, am I? Google it. Or ask Steph Curry because, according to my husband, this is all Steph Curry does. He wins sports games of some sort, I have no idea which sport because I have no idea who Steph Curry is. He wins sports games and floats. 24/7. That’s all he does.
And, B.) I don’t know why my husband did this. We’ve been married for almost 25 years. I think he’s just running out of gift ideas. Or maybe he thinks I want to be better at sports.
I kept putting off setting up an appointment for my float session. First, I insisted I needed to do research. Well, what do you know? Steph Curry does do float therapy and he plays basketball. Good to know. Then, I kept telling him I had my period. That always ends the conversation, any conversation. Thankfully, the entire month of June was taken up by visitors. But, eventually I had put off making the appointment for so long that one day my husband announced over breakfast, “You’re floating today at 4.”
“Shit! Uh, ok. Thanks, honey.”
During my diligent research and procrastination phase I learned a few things:
- The water I’d be floating in is extremely salty, making it dense and ensuring an effortless float. And the water is only 11 inches deep, so that allayed any worries I had of falling asleep and drowning or there being a shark hiding in deep waters waiting for me to get to the point of complete relaxation before ripping into my arm and dragging me under and having me as an afternoon snack.
- Obviously each float spa has their own protocols, but the place he was sending me to filters their pod water four times with UV lights in between each float session. Pod water sorta sounds like bong water and I’m hoping that’s not the next spa fad, Bong Water Float Therapy. That sounds super gross.
- I found out I could keep the pod open if I had an issue with claustrophobia. Given the fact that I am routinely strapped to a board and slid into a tiny, noisy MRI tube with no complications, it’s safe to say I’m not claustrophobic.
- My session would last an hour, which isn’t much longer than my MRIs, and that is 60 minutes without having the dog bite my ankles. So, this seems doable.
- Also, I could either wear a bathing suit or be totally buckass naked. That’s a clinical term, totally buckass naked. Trust me, I’ve been to a lot of doctors.
- I would be able to shower afterward so if I had be anywhere important I wouldn’t look like a salt encrusted sea bass. Of course, this is me. I have nowhere important to be ever in my life. I just went home and watched TV and ate Skittles.
I arrived a half hour before my appointment because I am that person. I hate being late. This left me with a whole lot of time to chat up the girl at the front desk. I told her all about my tumor and my back issues and my husband who was forcing me to do this because Steph Curry and blah, blah, blah. She was incredibly kind and had a wealth of float therapy wisdom for me.
As she led me down the hall and into my own personal pod room she laid down the basics for me. Shower before and after. Earplugs are not a must, but are provided if I so choose. Vaseline is provided to cover any cuts you have because salt water stings like a motherfucker, kids. And, if I wanted the whole experience, the entire flotation enchilada, she would advise closing the pod, turning out the lights, and going totally buckass naked. So, I did as was advised. Who doesn’t want the whole enchilada, boys and girls?
My initial impression, upon dipping a toe into my pod, was a combination of ahhhhh and ewwwww. The water is body temperature, so you’re neither cold nor hot. You just are. But the water is so tremendously salty it’s viscous, like stepping into egg drop soup minus the egg. It was explained to me that the water would feel “smooth” on my skin, but I would describe it more as slimy. Poe-tay-toe, poe-tah-toe, I suppose.
I closed the pod door behind me, turned out the lights, shut out the sound, and just let my totally buckass naked self float. For the first ten minutes it was really relaxing, a very unique sensation. Being that I’m a person living in a body that almost always aches or creaks or pops, it was nice to be suspended with no pressure anywhere. And it was quiet, so very quiet. And dark. And quiet. And suddenly it wasn’t so much relaxing as it was boring and my mind started to wander into random thoughts.
So, it’s probably been like ten minutes. So, that means I have 50 minutes left, right?
That’s a long time, 50 minutes.
I have so much laundry I have to do. I should have put a load in before I left the house.
Steph Curry definitely doesn’t do his own laundry.
I could be watching The Handmaid’s Tale right now. I wonder if Steph Curry watches The Handmaid’s Tale. He should. It’s really good.
It always weirds me out that Elisabeth Moss is a Scientologist, but she’s a really good actor.
Oh. My. God. I forgot. We’re having quesadillas for dinner tonight!
Quesadillas! *does small happy dance inside the pod*
What’s this button? Oooooooooohhhhhh, the light switch!
I wonder if Steph Curry likes quesadillas. Of course he does! Everyone likes quesadillas.
I wonder how much time I have left.
If Donald Trump turns the U.S. into Gilead I’d definitely be an Unwoman. I’m too mouthy and my tubes are tied.
What am I saying ‘if’ for? Hahahaha! It’s totally going to happen.
Quesadillas!!! *happy dance*
There are no quesadillas in Gilead. That’s going to suck.
Gawwwwwwwd. Are we almost done?
Steph Curry won’t have to worry about Gilead. He’ll just go to Canada. He’s got money. He’ll get to eat all the quesadillas he wants. Stupid Steph Curry.
Mmmmmmm. That man is fine and he wants to give me universal healthcare. Damn. I should move to Canada before this place goes Gilead.
*voice over loudspeaker* You have five minutes.
In conclusion: Float therapy really didn’t do it for me. It’s very possible this is just a ‘user error’ situation. It’s very likely everything I complain about is because of user error. I’m clumsy, have a short fuse, a bum leg, the attention span of a gnat. It’s a wonder I can even function in day to day society. So, you’re wise to never listen to my advice.
I was told I would be relaxed. I wasn’t. I was told it was comparable to having a massage. Not really. I was told I’d sleep better. Eh, maybe a little bit. I was told my jump shot would get better. Honey, you can’t improve upon perfection.
It wasn’t the worst experience in my life. I had an hour to myself, away from the kid and the dog and the husband and Steph Curry. I was getting really sick of hearing about that guy. That was kind of nice. But it certainly wasn’t life altering. I think I would have been more relaxed had my husband handed me a joint, a bag of Skittles and told me to take the afternoon off, go lie in a hammock, and read a good book.
So, honey, if you’re reading this. Hint, hint. Mother’s Day is just 10 months away.
Hey. I should start a joint/hammock/skittles/good book spa. I wonder if Steph Curry would like that.
Maybe he’d invest. We could do that in Canada after the U.S. goes Gilead. Weed’s legal in Canada now.
Do Canadians eat their quesadillas with maple syrup?