I think I'll pass on the dental dam

I'm sorry -- a dental dam? Just what do you all think happens in a flotation tank?

Ever dutiful, I watched the video that loyal follower and friend Marilyn posted following my fiery fiasco in the flotation tank ("fiasco" may be too strong a word; "fiery" is not). Marilyn was suggesting that I attach a dental dam (which, should you wish to be turned off to vaginas, you may see in its proper positioning on the video she cites in her comment) to protect myself in the flotation tank -- a structure designed to effect sensory deprivation, toward the end of total relaxation. The tank, that is; not the dam.

I have to admit I learned something with that video. I learned I am very glad to be out of college.

Apparently I have not, despite my dogged efforts, allowed blog followers to truly know me. I would no sooner put on a rubber dam and a sanitary belt to have a blissful experience with sensory deprivation than I would wear scuba gear to bed.

Despite the initial snafu involving concentrated epsom salts and a vulnerable area of my body that lacks a dam of any sort, I was always game for a second float. I just needed to figure out how not to have a reprise of the inferno that so distracted me that first time.

I brought tape with me, dear followers, including well-intentioned RNs. Wise enough to understand that duct tape might prove to have alarming ramifications during removal, I left that at home. Instead I brought the kind that you secure gauze bandages with. It's half paper, half something with more fortitude under water, I was hoping. But -- and here is the surprise ending -- I didn't need it. For there, sitting on the little bamboo table with the alcohol for your ears (see earlier duh) and a little hand towel, was a small packet of Vaseline which one is invited, during your pre-float orientation session, to use to cover papercuts before you get into the tub.

Though it may be anti-climactic for you as readers possessing a decent amount of collective schadenfreude, with the help of strategically placed Vaseline I ended up having a very peaceful, pain-free float. If you like the feeling of weightlessness and absolute darkness, I can now unequivocally encourage you to try to find a flotation tank. I would happily do it on a regular basis if one were closer by. If you go to the one in Westport, Connecticut, tell David I sent you. See if both of you can keep a straight face.

Be forewarned that a flotation tank is, perhaps like everything else in our lives, a projective device for our personalities. Laura floated in her own tank down the hall from me. I assumed she was doing what I was doing, which was lying as still as possible, trying to stop all thought and sensation. "Just relax, La," I coached her. "That's all you need to do. Lie back. You can't sink, and the water won't go over your eyes or nose. Just relax."

First order of business after our floats was to celebrate, while sipping our tea, that my float was comfortable and relaxing. No pain. Very peaceful.

How was yours? I then ask her.

"I loved it!" she exclaims. "Did you try crossing your legs? Did you notice that you could push ever so slightly against the side with one pinky and float right along the surface until you hit the other side? I did that over and over again, back and forth, back and forth. You could almost spin around! I got tired of not being able to see, so I kept turning the blue light on and off. There was a good echo in there, did you notice? I made some great mouth noises in there. And this brochure says you can use the float time to solve problems in your head. Why didn't they tell me that before? I would have tried to solve a problem or something."

I check her tea bag. Oy vey. Just what she needs. We trade mugs. She chugs my balancing chamomile tea and I sip on her fortifying oolong.