The inspiration for this story comes from two lifelong goals of mine:
1) Minimalism: I hate clutter. It irks me and I can’t think in the midst of it. I am constantly trying to rid my life of the material crap that seeps into it. Unfortunately, I also am afflicted with severe bourgeois guilt—I can’t rid myself of something without worrying what duty it could fulfill.
2) Muscular relaxation: A semi-serious devotion to yoga over the past few years implanted the firm belief into my brain that everything will be perfect if I eliminate every single knot from my body. My chi will flow and I’ll be balanced. So I spend a good portion of my life getting people to lay hot things on or poke at my real and imaginary large muscle group kinks.
Now, this story begins when a once-in-a-blue-moon purging fit took hold of me while I was in the bathroom; I decided to get rid of everything under the sink not currently useful in my life. It was awesomely satisfying striking not-completely-useful-things from the roster, while pausing for periodic spa breaks. (“Oooh! Pore cleansing strip—time for a facial! Foot gel!? Mani-pedi time!”)
My pulse quickened when I found a sealed camphor plaster. It looked pretty old and, since the instructions looked to be written in Chinese, I couldn’t tell if there was an expiration date. Could camphor, a natural product, go bad? My muscles were already trying to win the argument, tensing up with you-need-it-so-bad conviction. What could go wrong?
I put the plaster on the floor, adhesive-side up, and laid down on it, aligning it with an unreachable knotty spot on my back.
The camphor felt warm but not too hot, and had that comforting stink that let me know it was working. My knots already seemed to be untying themselves. Why hadn't I looked into this miracle treatment before?
When I went to bed a few hours later, it was still cooking. Incredibly, it still felt kind of warm when I got up the next morning, although this may have been my imagination. This stuff was amazing.
Unfortunately, it was time to pull the camphor plaster off my back so I could get on with my day.
It wouldn’t budge.
Pick . . . pick . . . pick . . .
I couldn't pry the edges up. Not one iota.
Here’s the lesson: Camphor appears to age very well. Old-school adhesive? Not so much.
I had been so proud of my independence when I got the plaster on the unreachable knot in my back; now I wasn’t feeling so proud. I still couldn’t reach that unreachable spot. How was I going to get this giant smelly sticker off my back?
Hot shower? Sure, that would do the trick.
Steam . . . steam . . . steam . . .
Nothing. If anything, the heat solidified the glue more. This thing was stuck.
After what seemed like an eternity of poking and picking with a letter opener, I finally pried up an edge. I'm not a baby about bandages. If anything, I welcome exfoliating opportunities. But this hurt. And the unreachable spot meant that I couldn't do the RIP-IT-RIGHT-OFF technique. All I could do was poke, poke, and poke some more with the letter opener.
I did eventually get it off. But not without leaving a rectangle of red framed by dirty adhesive that possibly might remain on my body until retirement. I called my make-up artist friend for help.
If anyone relives my experience, the answer is oil. Oil breaks down adhesives. I didn’t find out about oil until after I went to yoga. I’d had some small hope that sweat could clean off my back. I did a whole class looking like a museum wall recently robbed of a painting.
But the worst part is that the camphor plaster came in a package of two. I really doubt that I can bring myself to learn a lesson from this experience when the alternative is more muscle-cookin’-goodness.
BIO: KATIE WEEKLEY lives on the West Coast where she works in the film industry. Her work has been published in Reading Divas and Green Tricycle. More of her writing can be found at www.katiexkatie.blogspot.com. You can reach her at katieweekley@hotmail.com.
