I thought the bruises would transform me into a celebrity-styled conversation piece, but I felt more like a diseased social pariah. After a recent cupping session, I traipsed through a cocktail party for the Vancouver International Film Festival, wearing a halter top that clearly revealed a dozen, perfectly round contusions across my back from neck to waist.
I do not recommend this as a way to make friends and influence important people.
"Eeew!" one acquaintance cried, staring in gape-mouthed horror at the fresh, armadillo-sized hickeys, rapidly deepening into angry shades of blue and purple.
Although I assured anyone who got close enough to ask that the marks didn't hurt a bit -- on the contrary, I felt relaxed and revitalized -- no one believed me. Even my boyfriend was reluctant to stand by my side. "People are going to think I beat you," he said.
Come on, you West Coast hoi polloi. This was supposed to be my Gwyneth Paltrow moment. Two years ago, the actress caused a tabloid sensation when she appeared at a New York film premiere in a low-cut dress that revealed similar circular bruises on her upper back.
At the time, a few wags suggested that maybe she and Chris Martin, her rock star hubbie, liked it rough in the sack. But, as Ms. Paltrow explained to Oprah Winfrey, the marks were the result of a traditional Chinese treatment that uses heated glass cups to create a mechanical suction on the skin, drain excess fluids and toxins from deep muscle tissue and improve blood flow.
Commonly known as cupping, but sometimes described as middle-class leeching, the healing therapy also claims Cate Blanchett, Ralph Fiennes and Kate Moss among its devotees. But it's more than just a celebrity fad. Cupping has been used by acupuncturists in China since the third century BC, when cups were fashioned out of animal horns.
It is believed that cupping followed the silk traders out of China, through the Middle East and into Europe. Today, in war-torn Baghdad, there have been reports of ill and injured civilians seeking cupping, or Hijamma, because the hospital system there is such a mess.
In the West, the procedure is used to treat a wide range of conditions, including constipation, pesky cellulite, chronic depression and serious sports injuries. Australian pop singer Kylie Minogue reportedly used it to ease relieve the discomfort of chemotherapy.
My reasons for cupping were far less dire. I was introduced to traditional Chinese medicine three years ago, when I wrote about British Columbia becoming the first province in Canada to confer it with professional status. To illustrate the story, I gave facial acupuncture (an anti-wrinkle cosmetic treatment) a spin.
Since then, whenever I'm feeling stressed, I race to my acupuncturist for a quick, prickly fix. Tahmineh Nikookar doesn't just poke me with needles, though. Her treatments include hands-off energy work, herbs and cranial sacral massage.
After she removes the acupuncture needles, she may also take a glass, bell-shaped cup, ignite a cotton ball soaked with alcohol, swirl the flame in the cup (to remove the oxygen), plunk it on my oiled-down back to create a vacuum on my skin and gently glide it all over.
Oh, it's pure bliss. The suction mimics the rolling action of a deep-tissue massage, without any of the discomfort. And it doesn't bruise if the cup keeps moving.
Then one day, about two months ago, I woke up with a knot in my neck that was so tight I could barely move my head from side to side. I made an emergency appointment with Dr. Nikookar, who promptly pulled out two cups. They were bigger than the ones she usually uses. And she didn't glide them around this time. She suctioned them onto either side of my neck and left them there for about 15 minutes.
