I’m Hoping For A Cryotherapy Mishap That Turns Me Into Mr. Freeze
After I had knee surgery to repair a torn ligament, I turned to cryotherapy to speed up the healing process. To be honest, I figured it was just a kooky health fad until I walked out of my first session feeling better than I had in weeks. All the professionals I’ve been working with at the cryotherapy lab are committed to getting me back on my feet with as little lingering surgical pain as possible. They’re all wonderful at their jobs, but I can’t wait until one of them makes a small, innocent mistake while adjusting the settings on the cryo-tank and it turns me into Mr. Freeze.
I don’t have a high-tech cryogenics laboratory wherein an accident can transform brilliant cryogenicist Dr. Victor Fries into the evil, cold-hearted Mr. Freeze, but I do regularly visit a cryotherapy spa in a suburban strip mall, wedged between a pizza buffet restaurant and a smoke shop. I go there two to four times a week to undergo three-minute cryotherapy sessions that blast my body from the neck down with temperatures that begin at a painfully cold -150 degrees Fahrenheit and dip to an insane -250. Despite trusting every one of its employees with my life, I’d be okay if one of them made a small mistake that ended up with me trapped in the tank overnight as temperatures dipped below -1,000.
It doesn’t have to be anything as dramatic as a lightning strike or a malevolent cranking down of the temperature in an effort to kill me. Just as long as the morning manager opens a tank that’s been left on since the night before and my blue-gray body covered in hair as white as snow collapses out of the icy fog onto the floor, completing my transformation from a mild-mannered man to one who must live among subzero temperatures to survive, then I’m good.
It just sucks that even if this best-case scenario went down exactly as I fantasize, there would still be big differences between myself and the real-life Mr. Freeze. I can’t say I know exactly how to build a cryogenic suit that keeps my body temperature below zero. I guess I could pop some holes in an upright freezer so I can slide my head and limbs through its sides. Maybe I can call myself Freezer Burn or something. I don’t know. I’m just spit-balling here.
Also, Mr. Freeze’s primary motivating factor is to find a cure for the disease that is killing his cryogenically frozen wife. I don’t have a cryogenically frozen wife or even a wife. I’m still waiting to hear back from a couple of girls I swiped right on the other day. I hope they’re into men with ice-blue genitals. I mean, what girl doesn’t love a guy whose body has undergone a mutagenic change that requires him to live in subzero temperatures to stay alive?
If I walk away from my time rehabbing at the cryotherapy spa with only diminished pain and reduce inflammation, I won’t be mad. Just disappointed. I would rather suffer the agony of post-surgical ligament pain than live without legitimate cause to punctuate every sentence with an ice pun.
Images: DC Comics