Never one to refuse a freebie, I let my parents take me to their favorite foot reflexology center this afternoon and use up one of their prepaid sessions. In preparation for the hour-long session, the attendants lovingly wiped our feet with warm towels before placing them in towel-lined hotel slippers before whisking us away to the reflexology room.

The basic premise of reflexology is similar to that of acupuncture and shiatsu - there are twelve energy channels within the body on which there are a variety of pressure points mapped out. These points can then be used to undo blockages in those channels. Pressing the right areas restores a person's energy flow (or something like that). The curious thing about reflexology (and this isn't a new thing, by all means) is that the feet, especially the soles, contain a significant number of those pressure points, essentially enabling the therapist to holistically better your body and mind simply through your feet (think remote control).

I sat in the dimly lit room with my parents, drinking a cup of tea and still somewhat taking the experience in with a certain curiosity. It was my first reflexology session, after all, even if I had previously visited spas and health clubs for body massages (with the prices effectively equal, I'd always rather have my entire body done rather than merely my soles). The supervisor then gave me a booklet containing, among other things, the basic dos and don'ts for the therapy: that is, I shouldn't have had eaten anything in the previous hour and that I couldn't eat after for another hour as well. I also couldn't wash my legs a good four hours after, and I should watch my menstrual cycle for any unusual changes (I read every instruction just to make sure I didn't screw up, finding myself slightly amused at this one). She also explained to me that it's normal to receive bruises, and I found myself imagining a briefing to a fraternity initiation. Real reflexology should involve a certain amount of pain, she said, because it should work the nerve endings and not merely the muscles.

My therapist, after introducing himself as a licensed physical therapist, again told me to expect a bit of pain for the duration of the session. I just had two perfect strangers warn me that I was about to receive a good amount of pain for the next hour, and I had to think the best of the situation because my parents were paying to have this much pain dished out on me. I remembered that I stupidly backed up my dad's SUV less than an hour ago into my uncle's SUV, and for all I know, he could have slipped my therapist some cash to make sure that I felt his pain too. This should be therapeutic for us.

I leafed through the booklet and found a page with mapped-out feet when my therapist started applying body butter and mentholated oil onto my right sole.

And then he squeezed.

I stifled a whimper right about that moment because - gaddemmet - it gaddemm hurt. The nice therapist then asked me if the pressure was ok, and I can only nod because my mom was next to me and she was smiling (I can't possibly have a lower pain threshold than my mom!). I checked the chart, finding that I just got squeezed in the stomach. That booklet was definitely helpful, and not only for the information it contained, because while the therapist was deftly squeezing my intestines, liver, genitals and my entire anatomy via my right foot, all I could do to restrain myself was to keep reading and hope to God that my brain gets distracted. The informative booklet said that the foot had more bones in it than any other organ and contained a significant bunch of muscles and nerve endings. Well, my significant nerve endings were being significantly squeezed and stimulated, and knowing the science behind the pain did help a bit for me to understand the purpose of it all. It was therapy. The feet are, after all, the most abused parts of the body, and a bit of conditioning abuse was probably necessary, I thought.

After finishing with my right foot, which he carefully wrapped in a towel, he told me that the left foot (which he'd be doing next) was more sensitive than the right, generally speaking. Hoping that that tidbit only held true for right-handed individuals, I told him that I was left-handed, to which he replied that that was beside the point because the sensitivity was a matter of brain hemishphere dominance - our left halves are normally more sensitive to stimuli. I do get to learn something new everyday, but I often find myself wondering why I have to keep learning them the hard way.

By this time, I had already finished reading through most of the booklet. I knew that the therapist was squeezing out crystalline buildups in my nerve clusters, hence the grainy sensation whenever he squeezed. I also knew that I had to drink 500cc of warm water after the session to flush out the toxins. He then went on to apply that butter and oil mixture onto my left sole, casually telling me that I had very smooth and relaxed feet (I did?). He asked me if I had any particular health problems that needed extra attention. I replied that, aside from the internal bleeding he just gave me, I had a respiratory allergy - a statement that I would regret not five minutes later.

Our toe endings, according to the chart, contained pressure points for the sinuses, and I swear I felt the pain go right to the tips of my nostril hairs when he squeezed the sides of my big toe. For the allergy, he said, and went on to do the same thing to my four other toes, with repeated strokes that could have easily cracked walnuts open. He was telling me to breathe deeply to suppress the pain, and I found it oddly amusing that I would have gotten that same instruction only if I were in labor with a human head forcing its way between my stirruped legs. I forced myself to reread the first page of the booklet this time, and seeing that menstrual instruction once more, I realized that it wouldn't have been impossible for me to find myself with a menstrual cycle when I got home. I looked at my mom and I couldn't believe that she was still smiling. I couldn't possibly smile, not when I was experiencing a level of pain that could probably be comparable to shitting a nuclear warhead with a plus sized drill bit.

With both feet done, my hands, arms and back were then worked. They didn't hurt as much as my feet did, but the overall treatment did leave me strangely relaxed. I drank my 500cc glass of water and joined my parents in the reception area, thankful that I could still walk properly. I had to ask my mom if she didn't feel any pain at all because she seemed like she was smiling the entire time. She said that that was her stifling screams and smiled. I smiled back, stifling a scream.

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