Cryotherapy: Being in a useless human meat freezer

I didn’t really know anything about cryotherapy before going in for a session. And I’m happy to report that I still know nothing about cryotherapy after having it done to me. A few weeks back, a company slid into my DM’s to offer a complimentary session, and I, like all humans, love free things. I excitedly accepted their offer and quickly forgot all the little people I knew because I was now clearly an Instagram influencer.

Before the appointment, my research consisted of asking friends who had done it before “if it hurts.” Everyone just said it was really cold and very quick. (Just like all my ex-boyfriends). I was on my way to the place and ended up being 20 minutes late. I ran in and started apologizing profusely and laying the charm on real thick. There were three people manning the front desk, all dressed in the same workout attire. I love me an athletic cult.

One of the uniformed men started asking me if I had done cryotherapy before or knew what it was. “Nope!” I replied. He had me sit down to fill out a form and probably sign my life away while I was pounding back cups of water. I briefly asked if you were allowed to go into this thing with a hangover, and he nodded in approval.

Once I returned the form, the man – let’s call him Chad – told me he had to take my blood pressure and heart rate. I stuck out my left arm and he noticed the little tattoo on my wrist. “Are you a writer?” he asked. “Kind of. I don’t get paid for it, but I have a little blog.” I started telling him about all 6 of you wonderful people that actually read it, and that my last post was about a strip club. He looked at me and told me my heart rate was too high to go into the ice chamber. It was 106 and had to be under 100. “You need to calm down first,” he told me. “I know, I get that a lot,” I said. My resting heart rate always thinks it’s going sky-diving and is naturally pretty high. We chatted a bit longer, and when he took it again, I got it down to 90. “Alright, let’s get you in!” he said.

He started talking about all the benefits of cryotherapy while I was half-listening, and half wondering about how much money he makes and what I would eat for lunch. He put me in a changing room and told me I could take my clothes off and get in the little dress-robe. (But, like, take me to dinner first?) Here’s the ensemble:

I’m just now realizing that I left the door unlocked????

You have to wear mittens and thick, boy socks so you don’t get hypothermia. I came out of the dressing room looking the hottest I’ve looked in a while, and he asked me how long I wanted to be in this little meat freezer for. “I think, let’s do whatever a normal person would do,” I said gracefully. He laughed and gave me a knowing “you’re not normal” glance. Which song would you like to listen to? “Mambo Number 5, please,” I said. “What?” he asked with a confused look on his face. I didn’t realize Chad was this uncultured. “I know all the words and all the girls’ names,” I explained while he looked for it on his iPad. He told me I could come out whenever I wanted, but that the timer was set to 2 minutes and 30 seconds. The icebox looked like a sauna, but for cold weather. I briefly planned to Spartan kick the door down when my time was up.

Chad left me in the ice sauna for 2 and a half minutes at a temperature of negative 150 degrees Fahrenheit. The first thing that came to mind was my time in New Jersey. “This isn’t even that cold,” I thought. LA people are wimps. I used to walk to bars in my hoe clothes with this kind of cold. I didn’t really know what to do while I was in there. There’s enough room to walk around a bit, so I started to pace and think about what to think about. “A little bit of Monica in my life, a little bit of Jessica by my side,” rattled along in my ears and I started to sing and bust out small dance moves. I didn’t do any of my good dance moves because no one was around to see and it would’ve been a waste. My eyes started to tear up by the time I was done. I walked out and Chad noticed my cold cries. “Aw you missed me that much?!” he exclaimed. “Yes, I’ve grown very attached to you,” I told the stranger. He walked me back to my room and I looked at myself in the mirror. I was more awake now, and my skin was cold, but that’s about it. I already knew I’d never come back and pay someone to do this to me when I could easily just book a flight to Wisconsin.

I came out, and Chad wished me well and asked me to write down the name of my blog so he could check it out. I wrote it down, and he wrote his cell phone number on his business card and handed it to me. Chad, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry I forgot your real name and lost your business card.

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