Stop Making Sense(ory Deprivation Tanks)

What? That's a terrible title. Seriously though, fairly warned be thee; they're full of weirdness and bad news.

In the interest of science, carpe diem and alleviating guilt by finding a solution to our long-standing paradox of doing something while doing nothing, Brock and I decided to increase our theta brainwave output by exploring the exciting domain of flotation-entertainment.

One hour of complete sensory deprivation in a small egg-shaped pod. Just you and your breathing, naked and floating freely with the help of over 2000 cups of Epsom salts.

This kind of claustrophobic solitude sounds like a great idea. But the potential for bad vibes and freakouts can quickly outweigh the weightlessness.

To wit: Brock later admitted to experiencing nightmarish scenarios involving Bobby McFerrin and her grandmother.

I was overtaken by a messianic complex (not unusual in Quebec). I thrashed about for twenty-some minutes, my eyes burning with corrosive salts, screaming in Latin. I was then politely removed and restrained by four hippie attendants who, despite my demands of allegiance, calmly insisted that I was not their Pod Godling.

The good news – today, I’m back on my game and my skin looks five years younger.