Michael Jackson.  Michael Phelps.  And now yours truly Michael Mackie have all experienced the joy of pure, pressurized O2.  Seems hyperbaric chambers aren’t just for deep-sea divers suffering from the bends anymore.  Now the procedure is used for everything from aiding in digestion to helping autistic kids.

Who knew?

So, of course, because it’s become all the rage … I simply HAD to try it out for myself.  Imagine getting in to a big oversized space suit, one that expands and expands until you feel like a tick about to explode.

When I met with the doctor about what to expect I had tons of questions.  Like, “Are you single?”  Seems he had even more questions for me.  The first being, “You aren’t claustrophobic, are you?”  He then warned me about chronic ear popping as the machine filled up with pressurized oxygen.  Now I’m a seasoned flier, but even I wasn’t ready for the snap, crackle and pop going on inside my eardrums.  Mercifully, I grabbed some gum and gnawed on it like a manic cow chewing its cud.

The experience itself is wildly underwhelming.  After my ears stopped popping, I grabbed my ear buds and listened to Madonna’s new CD.  The doctor would pop in occasionally to ask how I was doing, peering through an oval-shaped porthole positioned above my head.  Good thing he was attractive because there would be nothing worse than a mediocre-looking person suddenly appearing in your window to the outside world.

There’s a zipper on the inside of the tube and an emergency release valve in case anyone was to freak out mid-session.  (Apparently, it’s happened … and I can see why.  It’s like being entombed in a casket that resembles a tanning bed.)

Did I feel any different afterwards?  Not really … although I had achieved some sort of weird, Zen bliss.  And I did sleep really well that night.  I’m trying it again for a full-hour in a couple weeks.  I’ll report back then with the 411.