Living Off the Fat of the Land
Reducing establishments can make you look better, but their fine print may make you feel worse.
(Page 4 of 5)
I was stripped of everything but my bra, smeared with "E"-llusion Contour Cream, wrapped in Saran wrap, and trussed up in a series of Ace bandages. The attendant had to help me onto my cot, as, in my mummy-Iike state, I could barely step forward. I lay there praying for the hour to pass, spread-eagled like a sacrificial victim waiting for the axe to fall. Movement was almost impossible, so turning the pages of the Reader's Digest was a major effort.
I began to tingle, then to glow, and finally to itch. Scratching was impossible, and I prayed that "E"-llusion was truly organic. I could picture my skin coming off in strips with the Ace bandage. When my timer "dingged" I thanked God and vowea never to wrap so much as a radish in Saran wrap again. Round and round the attendant unwound the bandages—and behold the lovely vision! Nothing had changed but my skin—beet red! However, the tape measure told a different story. Indeed I had lost a sum total of 434 inches—but not where I needed it most. I lost 14 inch in my left arm, but my stubborn right arm remained filled with uncompressed fatty globs; my ribcage measured one inch less, as did my waist, abdomen, and hips; and my stubborn thighs had given up 14 glorious inch on each.
The attendant cautioned me not to bathe, not to exercise for two days, and not to eat a heavy meal. A sign posted in the studio, perhaps in the wake of the inquiry, states that heart patients may not have body wrapping. However, no one asked me if I were a heart patient or not. Two days later, when I measured myself, sure enough, there were the old fatty globs right back where they started.
Rayburn N. Meador, vice president of Texas Slenderbolic Health Studios and president of the Houston company which manufactures Slenderwrap, testified before the attorney general's court of inquiry that the product he uses in his wrapping materials "works, is safe, and its effect is lasting." He further stated that he had checked his materials and the process with a Houston doctor, who had told him that wrapping increases the cardiovascular load on the subject, but that even a "bedridden heart patient" could be wrapped without suffering any ill-effects.
Meador explained the process in court, stating that his chemically-treated wrap triggers the body's temperature-control mechanism and leads to calorie and inch loss. When questioned about the specific formula for Slenderwrap, Meador replied that he did not know what was in the product. He further stated that, "as long as the public receives a benefit from it and they're willing to buy it, I'm willing to sell it." Slenderbolic's advertisements had claimed that a person could "lose five to 15 inches in just one magic hour" with his bodywrapping process. When questioned, Meador testified that the total number of inches mentioned in the ads were based on measurements of five body areas and not the amount lost in a single place.
I checked out body wrapping with one studio in Austin that had discontinued it. The owner stated that they had used the process, advertising it as a temporary measurement for weight and inch loss, and had had some success with customers who had used it, along with diet and exercise at the salon. She explained that it became too difficult to get the supplies, too complicated to train the girls to do the wrapping, and that the customers began to look on it as the "nirvana" in weight loss.
MANY HEALTH SPAS HAVE CLEANED up their act and their advertising is not so flagrant, but the "hard sell" is still on in many. When I dialed Houston's Slenderbolic studio on Post Oak, it was gentlemen's day. However, the male manager I talked to couldn't have been more pleased to hear from me. "I'd like to do business with you if I could," he responded. "Come on over today. I'd like to sign you up!" I thanked him kindly and came the next day when it was ladies' day. Slenderbolic is converting its Post Oak studio to all males and transferring its women clients to one of their satellite clubs.
The Post Oak studio is heavy on the mirrors and the red-flocked wallpaper, and light on cleanliness. The clash of steel and the clank of barbells testifies to enough machinery to make a Grand Inquisitor chortle with glee. Elaine showed me through the exercises. Slenderbolic has a mound of equipment and I worked out on the "swivolator" for my waist, the "hipolator," and the "mini-track" for jogging. In addition, there was a passive room, where two machines alternately swing and sway first the upper part of the body and then the lower. A third machine jiggled my double chin and relaxed me, so that I would be ready for the "wet area."
Hydrotherapy is definitely in order at Slenderbolic. I showered before the dry sauna, then again before the wet, and again when I emerged dripping from the swimming pool. I spent a few quick minutes in the "sun solarium," a tiny room with a sun lamp.
The spa has plans for renovation when the clientele switches to all males, but for that moment it was decidedly second rate. The carpets were frayed and dirt was embedded around the walls. Three showers were out of order and the "wet area" had a number of broken tiles. I found a decided difference in the spas that catered to both men and women. The heavy rush of clientele obviously led to more machine breakdown and out-of-order appliances. As health spas are selling equipment and not services, it would be well for them to keep their houses in order.
But the "hard sell" was intact just the same. Karen guided me through the maze of contract talk, after showing me just what my measurements should be. More than ever, I was convinced that I was doomed to remain cased in fat. Karen explained that Slenderbolic had only one-year memberships, but that they are sold in individual units. The units were three—the exercise room, the wet area, and the passive room. One look and Karen decided that I did not need the passive room—it was sweat and strain for me. Each unit was normally price at $118 for the year, but I could have both units for $198 or all three—if I really insisted on being passive—for $264 a year. I could pay one-half of the fee now and one-half in 30 days. It looked like I was never going to get a 24-inch waistline without a short stay in the poor house. I considered running to Dallas, where Slenderbolic advertises "No Binding Contracts to Sign" and "Short Term Programs."
THE WORDS OF JOHN KEATS—"A thing of beauty is a joy forever"—are emblazoned on Houston's super spa—Presidents-First Lady. P-FL is decidedly the dernier cri of all Texas's health clubs. The ambience is sheer Grecian decadence with the omnipresent array of Greek statues, plus murals for good measure. One mural, in Bathsheba's Tepidarium (spa talk for swimming pool), featured a Greek goddess with breasts like Wonder Woman in an antique frieze of supergals.
I was strictly outré in my red spa suit, as Presidents-First Lady has a dress code. All fat ladies must exercise in black or purple leotards, to blend with the purple and silver opulent decor created around the lifesize portrait of Mrs. Richard Minns, the founder's wife, that graces the entrance foyer. I entered the exercise area with hushed reverence, knowing that Houston's richest and most beautiful come to shed their fat here.
The array of steel machinery was mind-boggling; the whole shebang of spadom was right there in one room. Clad in my too-large purple leotard and my too-short purple tights, I was soon whirling away like a champion—from stationary bicycle to mini-track; from rollers for my "underbust" to "twistaway" to whittle away my waistline. Even as the experienced spa-goer I had become, I was wilted at the end of the session.
Now the fun began! I was hustled off into the eucalyptus inhalation room, coyly decorated with one of those artificial-looking Greek beauties who looked as if she had never had a sinus problem in her life. Breathing deeply, I relaxed into quasi-somnolence, when Odelia, the spa's attendant and an employee of the "system" for some 12 years, coaxed me into the dry sauna—desert heat and a piercing 140° to 160°. After my body became adjusted to the temperature, it was quite enjoyable. Some ladies even sipped Diet Shasta from the health bar while they roasted.
But the Desert Dry Sauna was just a warm up for the real thing—the wet sauna, registering 190°. A few minutes in the mineral steam not only opened my pores, I felt they were gone for life. One hardy soul, who looked like her lifestyle alternated between the tennis court and the mineral sauna, perched on the upper deck beating the dead cells from her arms and legs with a loofah. She remained there for at least ten minutes, but two were enough for me. I fled back into Odelia's care, gasping for breath.
Then it was whoosh into the bubbling hot whirlpool bath. No relaxing and enjoying the swirling water though. Odelia coached me on how to use the water jets that exerted 40 pounds of pressure on various parts of my body—first the stomach, then hips, then the buttocks, even the inner thighs. Then swoosh from a rope into the icy Danish plunge, where the chilly water "closed up my pores and invigorated my entire body."
Next, Odelia swathed me in towels and deposited me, feet over my head, on an S-shaped chair to "relax and let the blood rush to my brain." After my brain had been fed to capacity, it was water-play time in Bathsheba's Tepidarium. No dog paddling here! Clasp a plastic beach ball between your thighs and you can tighten up those so-important vaginal walls. Swim with it stretched out in front of you, kicking like fury, and you can tighten your upper arms.
I bypassed a pleasant respite in Cleopatra's Beauty Bath, as I felt I had plunged, swished, and floated in enough water for life. For an extra charge, the P-FL customer can soak in luxurious naked splendor, just like Cleopatra, in a choice of milk, perfume, or bath oil. She can also apply her makeup, dry her hair under the dryer, or relax on a purple chaise in the makeup room.
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