Ayurveda Retreat: A Hypochondriac's Wonderland Part II

Britnie
It wouldn't be way off base for people to call me prudish, but I wouldn't call myself that. If you look at my fashion sense, you can see I keep myself covered in many layers. So imagine my surprise when I walk into a room and 3 Indian women look at me and say, “Madam, take off all your clothes.” And while it's still quite hot in India, I still wear the layers, so that took some doing. They then proceed to dress me in a flimsy little lion cloth. I think to myself, well good, if at least my you-know-what and boobs are covered, I'll be okay. But alas, the girls are not covered and I am left with only the loin cloth.

The treatment begins with hair pulling. They start pounding my head and I am sure I'm gonna get a subdural hematoma. They classify this as head massage. I am then invited to mount the massage bed, which is actually a hard slab of wood, and lay in 99% of my glory. There are 3 people in the room, but only 2 actually help me. The third just stands around and I often find myself peeking one eye open to make sure she isn't taking pictures. I lay on my back, they bring out their freshest pot of vegetable oil and they generously apply and swish it all over my body. Apparently this is an ayurvedic massage. I'm pretty sure I am being prepared for some kind of feast.. They claim to be vegetarians, but I'm poised to be dropped into a deep fryer at any moment. The table is now so full of oil that I can't control where I move to. I slosh from side to side in the wooden bed. I am being tenderized like last week's pork chop.

This brings me to “Knife Fingers.” I'm not sure what extra joint exists in this lady's hand, but this protrusion is the bane of my existence. No matter how she touches me, it hurts, and she's only assigned to my left side, so day after day my left side is sliced and slashed. This is meant to be relaxing. Seeing as one lady keeps yelling out “Relax, madam, relax!” I guess I have not quite mastered the art of peaceful masochism.

The therapists notice that I have some nasal congestion and they decide to remedy that for me. They lay me on my back, plug a nostril while dumping hot oil into the other and telling me to breathe it in. Then they do the same with the other side. Then I sit up, loin cloth only half covering the downtown, and they light some kind of incense and hold it under a nostril while plugging the other. I have to breathe the smoke up one nasal passage and out the other. Rinse and repeat. This burns something fierce.


Justin
Have you ever been dressed in a patch of cloth, lain onto a wooden table, and been rubbed with hot oils until you are as slippery as a greased pig at an inbred rodeo? No? Then you're totally missing out! Not to mention that after the serendipitous rubdown, you get to ingest an assortment of garbanzo bean and lentil entrees with accompanying hot basil water and glutenous rice ball. Don't forget the cup of buttermilk ghee to wash down the medicine that makes green olive juice seem absolutely dripping in sweetness.
My treatment is similar to Britnie's but includes getting pounded with bags of herbs and trying to keep my junk covered while a middle-aged, overly smiley man named Baby gently dabs the sweat from my brow and says, “lubadubalubadubalubadubalubaduba” (tongue flapping like it's the Fourth of July ) and then he giggles like a nymphomaniac. Once the dab-giggle-nympho-fest is over, another therapist gives me a nasal treatment and the only thought I have is, “Why on earth would I want to be able to smell better whilst in India for heck's sake!?” KMN. Red spray, flies, and the Ganges come flooding to my cerebral cortex in a flash, accompanied by a fit of mental dry heaves.