I was reading this post (freaking hilarious!) about colon hydrotherapy, which brought back memories of my own sessions. I was preparing for a group initiation into the energies of the Archangel Michael, and I wanted my body to be the clearest vessel possible.
What basically happens in this series of procedures is that the therapist slides a well lubed tube thingie into your backside. It has a device to connect two tubes on the outside, one for water going in to flush the system, the other for expelled matter.
Here’s the thing. I firmly believe that your backside is designed for egress, not ingress. In other words, nothing should be going in. I knew that these procedures would give me health benefits, but had a hard time getting past the method. So I paid in advance for the first four appointments. If I hadn’t paid up front for work down back, I probably wouldn’t have showed. I noticed results after that, so I showed up regularly.
The therapist was very shy, and spiritual. I expected she had heard all the jokes about what a crappy job she had, but I was determined to brighten her life with new ones. Because really? That’s just the kind of lovely person I am, making a shy woman squirm while I tell poop and fart jokes. No, you can’t reward me. I took down the donate button. Well, you could vote for me, or subscribe to my feed. I’m reliving awkward moments here, people. I can’t hear your applause, but I can see the numbers.
I used deep breathing techniques to allow the water maximum room to flush, and to alleviate the cramping that results from toxins being stirred up prior to expulsion. The toxins made me feel nauseous, but not throw up nausea, it was more in my bowel. I felt it a little with each flush. What I find funny is that my Grammie always called the indoor toilet the flush. Because she vividly remembers the other kind that did not flush.
What fascinated me most besides the bits of corn, turds, and recognizable food sloshing by in the egress tube, were the enormous air bubbles coming out the tube into the sealed container (so it wouldn’t offend your olfactory sensibilities). These things reminded me of the bubbles you get by dipping a broom handle with an attached loop into a bucket of detergent. They were That.Large. I had visions of little kids dancing in meadows, making bubbles of my farts.
I wanted to know how she could possibly deprive my family of such treasures. After all, Dances with Shrapnel had christened me Methane Mom. I had a lot to live up to. She made a choking sound, which passed for laughter masked by embarrassment. There was no getting this woman to laugh.
She was, however, very interested in the Archangel Michael group activation I was holding, and attended. She also came regularly to my group meditations/pot luck gatherings.
I often wondered if she could see those enormous fart bubbles in her mind’s eye when I was leading a meditation.
I never got a real belly laugh out of her. Doesn’t she know that poop is funny?