What does pickled pork and a day old piece of kabana have in common?
I was more nervous about getting nude this morning than I was at the end of the record breaking drought of 2009. (Not to be confused with the drought end of 2020 – shorter in duration but much more traumatic in its post-baby form)
Getting nude in a health spa that looks too fancy for your Kmart undies sets the palm sweats off faster than a pair of scales in a doctor’s office. But today I went nude, empathised with hot box meats and slow-cooked meats in broth. And I liked all of it.
Infra-red saunas and magnesium floats have long been the penchant of athletes and the bourgeoisie of health trend hippies. A few of my friends have been floating for years. All converts and most would choose it over a massage. I am a health trend doubter. It took me decades to be comfortable-ish to get a massage and truth be told – it was a massage in Egypt by a very young man with strong wondering palms that convinced if I could do that, dreadlocked Matt suction cupping my back was hardly a problem.
So in togs and a sundress I limped into Citycave Paddington today with a gift voucher my convert besties bought me for my birthday. (Limped because I fell down the stairs on Monday and have bruised my foot and ankle – I thought the magnesium and heat might help – but that’s a whole different blog in it’s own hilarity)
The lady at the front counter knew my name, knew I’d paid with a gift voucher and was the most welcoming, unthreatening, inclusive face that could have possibly greeted me. I loved her instantly and wanted her to come grocery shopping with me before I walked out the door.
She gave me tea, sat me on the couch, went through how it works without making me feel like a moron and then said, you’re supposed to feel relaxed – if it’s not – open the door and we’ll fix it.
She suggested nude, the room was tiny, I could lock the door and I figured while in Rome… (a ridiculous comparison really – if in Rome there’d be more people and sex slaves to do my bidding while I sweated and sat)
In a glass box for 45 mins. I could choose music or podcasts or anything I could stream from my phone – but I chose nothing. Silence. I rarely get it at home and while it’s not my preferred choice most of the time, it’s not until someone removes it that you begin to crave it.
So there I sat, nude, blasted by invisible rays in a glass box filled with rainbow disco lights. The box has a carousel of different coloured lights for chroma therapy. I don’t know what that is, I don’t really care. My favourite was the purple one.
I lay on a white towel – arse to the ceiling – and napped. Actually slept – like a day old kabana left in the strobe lights of a midnight road house. I roasted, sweated, rotated and dozed for forty-five minutes. I thought I would hate it but I grew warm from the inside out and while my eyes were closed I could almost imagine my day in the sun, roasting without the irritating rub of sand in any of my cracks.
My new best friend collected me in my robe and gave me more water and time for a bit of a sit before the float. In my head it was an actual stone cave complete with dripping water and slate stones. The door was not in fact in Hogwarts and it was a very normal wet room.
Crawling in, again nude, I tried and I tried to sink my arms to the floor. It almost became a bit of a competition trying to force my limbs down. It was only after an out loud admonishment from myself that I told myself to relax.
Lights out, music on, feel the water. The water was almost thick. Humid, heated air and then swallowed by body temperature liquid that feels a little bit like that hand sanitizer that’s too runny.
In the pitch black, lifted by liquid, it happened again. I napped. I woke to a sheen of sweat across my face and went looking for the wall. Amidst minor panic and then a bump, I turned the light on to play more ‘what if’ games. Can I put my feet down? Can I sit up? What happens when I flap my arms? Or hang them by my sides? I giggled and tried to roll over and imagined I look like a piece of rolled pork in the slow cooker – tipping and turning only to rest in the same position on my back no matter how hard I tried.
Out of the pool is a shower and some fancy smelling stuff that I put on without interruption and mood lighting. Almost worth the entire experience really – uninterrupted showering is pretty amazing.
Dressed and with a body temperature slightly above normal my new best friend bought me more tea, checked in and then let me sit for a while. She said there’s no hurry – stay as long as you need. I had that vacant stare that I get when I’ve actually slept a full night through and realised quickly that power naps in hot boxes and ponds might be more helpful than a ten minute eyes shut nap with a toddler on your lap.
The quiet, the hugging heat, the fancy tea and a new best friend. There wasn’t much more I could ask for on Thursday morning. My new best friend didn’t come grocery shopping and I got out of the pond a touch early because the lure of a shower alone was too strong, but all in all, I’m pretty sure I’ll get nude in a box again.
life in big frilly knickers 