I want to talk to you about cupping.

Relax. It’s not a sex thing.

I think my editors would shut that down faster than January’s snow melted. 

And it’s probably time I told you one of my editors is my godfather.

Which did not get me this job. 

As my godfather, he is obligated by both law and the universe to follow me on social media. 

And also to buy me things. 

He read my work on social media and loved it. 

I mean, loved it. Loved it more than he loves his children and grandchildren and wife put together. 

So he asked me to write for him.

I told him for years I should write for him.

I’d like to say I was right. 

As usual.

All this really has nothing to do with cupping.  

Which is not, I reiterate, a sex thing. 

It’s a wellness thing. 

Wait! Don’t go. I get naked in this story. That’s worth staying for, right? 

Cupping is a practice in which glass cups are placed on your body.  

Suction is applied. And given that you have like six or eight cups on you at a time, it’s like six or eight people are simultaneously giving you the world’s strongest hickey. 

I swear. It’s really not a sex thing. 

The point, as Gwyneth’s website so beautifully explains, is to alleviate a host of problems. 

If there is any chance I can fix Willie’s taxes by pretending to be Gwyneth while little cups are suctioned to my skin, I am all in. 

Now, I am not the kind of person to say, “Oh, Gwyneth did this so I’m doing it.” 

I am the kind of person to say, “I will do some of the things Gwyneth does.” 

So. Do I occasionally bake with almond flour instead of regular flour?  

Yes.

Did I marry a rocker?  

No.  

No, I did not. 

He climbs over a lot of rocks, though. 

I mean, many, many rocks.  

So maybe that counts. 

My first experience with cupping was accidental.  

I was getting a massage. As the therapist worked on my upper back and shoulders, she — as graciously as she could — asked what, exactly, was wrong with me. 

“You have so much tension in your back. I’ve never seen this much tension before,” she said. 

As an overachiever, I beamed with pride. 

Explaining my tension as being related to having a Willie sounded too much like the sexual content I’m so desperately trying to avoid here. So I mumbled something about having a lot of stress. 

When massage failed to make a dent, she pulled out her cups and got to work. 

Now, as an incredibly sickly-looking pale person, the following day I sported a bruise from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. 

But I felt great. Like, cold shower great. 

So when my husband presented me with a gift card to my favorite spa for Christmas, I decided to tack cupping onto my next massage. 

This massage therapist — a different one from my previous cupping experience — eyed me up the morning of my services. “My dear,” he said, “do you bruise easily?” 

My knees are still bruised from that fall last summer.  

So … kind of? 

The cups were applied, in parallel lines, from my shoulder blades to my ankles. 

And, um, everything in between. 

Yeah. It hurt. 

Then it felt OK. 

Then it was done. 

Do I think cupping does anything?  

I mean, please.  

If hickeys didn’t do anything, none of us would ever have subsequent ones. 

Right? 

For starters, I felt fantastic afterward. 

Don’t worry. The universe quickly upended that feeling. 

Secondly, I’ve been having a problem with my right shoulder.  

After the cupping session, my right shoulder was much better. And the bruises I had in that area were much more pronounced than in my left shoulder area. 

So that’s something. 

I was, in fact, bruised to some degree at each point a cup had latched to my skin.  

I also, thanks to hot yoga, had brush burns on my elbows. 

“You look,” my husband said, “like you have a disease.” 

Huh.  

I kind of thought I looked like Gwyneth. 

Maybe I should, like Gwyneth, have some bone broth. 

Don’t worry. 

That’s not a sex thing either.