ArcaMax

I went in for what I call a "shake and bake" recently, cooking like a chicken in a rotisserie under thousands of tiny red LED bulbs and then jiggling myself silly on a weight-loss platform.

I wasn't entirely sure how I wound up in a "wellness spa" looking like a sweaty submariner under emergency drills in "The Hunt for Red October," but most of the blame must be laid at the foot of my brother, who had been bugging me about doing a cold plunge for months.

"It's amazing! You have to try it," he said, describing how he pays for the privilege of dropping himself into a pool of 50-degree water once a week. Cold plunges are great, he said, especially once you can go for longer than 10 seconds without screaming in pain. He admitted that the first time he'd done a cold plunge, he had violently cursed -- so much and so loudly that the staff got worried about him. But afterward, he said, he'd felt great. It had helped him with his back, he said, and his shoulder and his wrist.

"Don't you still have problems with your wrist?" I asked, remembering how he'd just been telling me about his debilitating carpal tunnel.

"Yeah," he said, "but it used to be way worse!"

He said he'd even pay for me to try it.

"Ehhhh, no thanks," I said. "If I ever want to turn myself into a piece of cocktail ice, I'll just walk outside naked during the winter."

Well, he said, in addition to cold plunges, he's also gotten into red light and ultraviolet sauna therapy. Maybe I should try one of those instead.

I did some reading about red light therapy, and it sounded a lot better than jumping into a pool of icy water. The list of ailments that it promised to cure was, frankly, unbelievable -- everything from impotency to depression -- but the literature I found online also mentioned eczema, which I have. That sounded feasible, at least, and if it could reduce my itchy skin and lessen the days I have to slather on steroid creams, I'd at least consider it.

So, I did a bit of googling and found a spot advertising the "best red-light therapy" bed in the area. I booked an appointment, choking back a snarky comment about the price, which was $75 for 10 minutes.

Within days, I was driving to an office park in a remote suburb, looking for the sign for the "wellness spa." Inside, it had the sterile, grey vibe of a hospital in "Blade Runner." The receptionist, who looked strikingly normal for someone with so much access to high-tech "well-being," greeted me and showed me into the treatment room.

"I hope you like it hot!" she said cheerfully, showing me a bed that looked a lot like the tanning machines I used as a teenager in the weeks before homecoming. She pointed at the protective glasses I had to wear and demonstrated how to turn the machine on and off.

"And here's the vibration platform," she said, pointing to a high-tech plate with a railing at the top. "Just turn it up to at least level 50 and do it for 10 minutes after your red-light session."

I hadn't booked any vibration station, so I was confused but willing to go whole-hog in my wellness experiment.

After she left, I lay back and let myself bake. After months of Midwestern winter, the bright light was relaxing. Was it "$450 an hour" relaxing? I don't know. But it felt pretty good, and I wouldn't have a sunburn to worry about afterward.

Full of UV-related bliss, I got myself dressed and stepped onto the vibration platform. I upped the levels as instructed, starting to worry when, at about level 20, I could feel my teeth threatening to rattle right out of my mouth. There were instructions on the platform, clearly translated into English from another language, about how to maximize your time on the full-body shake weight.

"Move legs to angle side and allow hips vibration fat off," it requested. I attempted to comply but no matter how weirdly I positioned myself, I couldn't get past the feeling I was doing it wrong. The more vibration I underwent, the less I believed that there'd been a health benefit to the red-light therapy.

A place that would put you on a contraption like this should be suspected of more general quackery, I thought.

After my 10 minutes of shaking torture was completed, I stumbled on my sea legs to the front desk to check out.

"It's great, isn't it?" asked the receptionist, clearly expecting another rave review and another wellness convert.

Was the floor still vibrating or was that just me?

"Very nice," I agreed, handing my credit card to her for what I was determined would be both the first and final time.

As she processed it, she handed me a brochure explaining the myriad wellness treatments the spa offered, everything from cryotherapy to isolation tanks. I could only imagine the price for a full day of health.

"Have you ever been in a hyperbaric oxygen chamber?" the woman asked, looking like a TV preacher. "It's amazing! You have to try it."

"Not yet," I said, managing to get my card back into my wallet with shaking hands. "I'll keep it in mind for next time."

To learn more about Georgia Garvey, visit GeorgiaGarvey.com.

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