My Body(26)

“It’s not unheard-of,” she answered, finally putting her iPad down. “Let’s take a look.”

I laid my head back and felt my hands tremble. “Can you scooch your butt closer to the edge?” she asked. I obliged, wiggling my bare ass down to the end of the platform.

“There.” She was focused, I noticed. “That’s perfect. Now you’re going to feel something cold. It might be uncomfortable. Please let me know if there’s any pain.”

I felt the speculum slide between my legs, and then inside of me, as my bare toes clenched in the metal stirrups. I tried to remember to breathe. I could feel the texture of the walls of my insides against the instrument’s unnaturally smooth sides.

“Ahh,” I made a sound as I exhaled, trying to instruct my body to unclench, but everything tightened instead.

“Is this painful?” the gynecologist asked, jolting up. I tilted my head forward. Her face was framed perfectly between my knees. I shook my head.

“Try to relax,” she said. “It’s normal for this to feel uncomfortable, but there shouldn’t be any pain.” I was suddenly embarrassed by my apparent lack of control. Why couldn’t my body do what she was asking, what I wanted it to do? I smiled at her weakly.

“This always happens.” I paused and then went to reassure her, “There is no pain, though.” I could tell that she wasn’t sure whether to believe me, that she doubted I was a reliable reporter on my own body. “I don’t think it’s pain,” I offered, and she nodded, silent.

When I told Sara about this experience, she looked at me knowingly before I was even finished and interrupted me. “Victims of sexual assault seize up at the gyno. It’s, like, a known thing.” I raised my eyebrows.

“Interesting,” I said, but the reason I can’t relax at the doctor’s office isn’t because of sexual assault, or at least not exactly. For a second, I wished I could lie to Sara and point to one specific event in my past that would easily explain my body seizing up. I know that a speculum inside me reminds me of sexual violations I’ve experienced, sure, but I also hate the gyno because I’m not the one holding the instrument, opening myself up. I hate that I’m expected to trust someone other than myself. I hate that I am being looked at so intimately. I hate being assessed.

When I became pregnant and started to weigh the pros and cons of giving birth at home versus at a hospital, I made a list of what I feared most in each scenario. I wrote “pain” and “hemorrhaging” under home birth, and under hospital, I added “doctors and nurses.” It was only then that I realized how much I’d come to distrust those in positions of power who, often without my best interests at heart and without my explicit consent, had made my body feel like it wasn’t my own.

While the staff at the Korean spa are authoritative, they don’t inspect and evaluate you. The terms of the service and their interaction with your body have been agreed upon in advance. They are all women. They wear minimal black undergarments that keep them cool and dry. There is a solidarity in their stripped-down attire that makes me feel safe, like we are all on the same side.



* * *



“FACE UP,” THE tiny attendant tells me. A washcloth falls over my eyes.

“Thank you,” I mutter, but she ignores me, already busy running hot water into a bucket. Splash. The water hits my body and rolls off as I quiver with pleasure.

Here at the spa, I’m not thinking about cleanliness or my insides or who I belong to. I’m just here, one of many women who are unwrapped and undressed. I’ve never known this kind of rest anyplace else in my life. I let my body unclench. I let myself relax. There are no binding belts or high heels or stirrups. There is no being looked at.

The scrub and massage always goes like this:

You lie on your back, then your side, then your other side, then your stomach. The attendant rubs a thick, fibrous rag against your skin. The sensation is somewhere between pain and a tickle. As you flip and adjust according to your body scrubber’s instruction, you can peek out from under your washcloth and see the dead skin lying in neat gray rolls next to you on the metal platform. Some people are bothered by this, but I don’t mind it. I see it as a sign of progress. The attendant rubs your elbows, your ankles, your armpits, your breasts, in between your buttocks, and behind your ears, places you might not think about, with equal attention and disinterest. Splash.

Next, you are covered in a chemical-smelling soap. Bubbles multiply on your raw skin and you feel reborn. Or you just feel like a fish. Splash.

The attendant hits your back twice, firmly, with her fists. You sit up, and she tells you to stick out your hands. “Go wash,” she says, squirting an exfoliating face wash into your hand. When you shower you make sure to wash your face well, as this is your only responsibility and you want to be helpful. You turn the faucet off and dry yourself with precision.

When you return from the shower, there will be towels draped over the metal platform. Now your attendant will beat oil into your skin using acupressure. She will hit the palms of your feet with her knuckles and pinch where your head meets your neck with all her strength. You will be kneaded and pulled and struck. I love that I can lie there and know that she’s doing what she does with everyone, that unlike other places where you might be massaged, the masseuse doesn’t ask you what hurts or where you need attention. No one is pointing out a special knot or specific issue. There is no special treatment here; only exactly this ritual with no variations.