A few months back, I tried a new cuisine. Himalayan. Yeti on the sign and everything. Yak Balls. It went… well. You can read the blog post to know how it went.
Many months before, I invested in a Himalayan salt lamp (totally unrelated to the cuisine escapade, but I needed a segue into this post). I’d seen these in office settings and thought they looked cool. I wasn’t even sure if I’d use it much, and I had doubts about the “research” (I use this term loosely) that I’d come across now and then on the benefits of such lamps.
The research even said right there in the research that the claims haven’t been properly researched.
The lamps come in several styles. I chose a wire basket complete with a bulb on a dimmer switch.
All you gotta do is dump in a bag full of peach-orange crystals and plug the thing in to begin reaping the numerous benefits.
(And as I’m going back through this post for edits, I realize it’s those “All you gotta do” moments that usually trip me up…)
Here’s a rundown of the possible pros and what I handed this poor little basket of glowing salt to deal with.
Better sleep.
This sounds nice. Perhaps combat sleepwalking, spooky dreams, and middle insomnia. Something about negative ions and increased oxygen flow.
Perhaps with better sleep, I could finish the WIP! (work in progress)
The Result: The gentle orange glow reminds me of a campfire, and, coupled with the “fireplace” white noise app, I can fall asleep faster. It did not keep me in bed or bring sweet dreams, nor did it keep me from waking wide-eyed at two a.m. to solve problems I’m woefully underqualified for.
The little lamp said, “Enjoy the glow, but yeah. No.”
Reduce effects of electromagnetic radiation.
A hazard of my job, evidently. And a benefit I didn’t know I needed but now I’m worried about thanks to Dr. Google. What I’d like to know is if it would counter the effects of consuming Thanksgiving dinner from uranium glass should I forget and eat turkey from a radioactive platter. I’d be super impressed. Buy stock in the company, even.
Perhaps with a proper radiation block in place, I could finish the WIP!
The Result: No data here, but it is a possible short story in the making. (Seriously, though. Don’t do the uranium glass thing; the salt won’t counter it, and you’ll glow brighter than the Himalayan rocks.)
The little lamp said, “Enjoy the glow, but yeah. No.”
Improve air quality.
Oxygen does a body good.
Perhaps a lack of good O2 is preventing me from finishing the WIP!
The Result: We live with three cats. There is no improving the air quality no matter how many negative ions this tiny basket of salt spews into the bedroom. Like, there’s cat hair on top of and intermingled with the salt rocks.
The little lamp said, “Perhaps vacuum my rocks. But in the meantime, enjoy the glow.”
Improved skin.
Yeah… I’m running out of excuses for this WIP.
The Result: I have not rubbed these salt rocks on my face. I do know if you stuff a salt rock into your pocket as a fidgety-grounding-ish tool, your thumb will feel funny as you anxiously rub the rough edges away. Your thumb will also smell a little salty. Should you forget to remove the rock before laundering your pants, you will no longer have that particular rock and must start working the rough edges off a totally different one, once again making your thumb feel funny and smell salty.
The little lamp said, “Stop stealing my rocks. It reduces the glow.”
Improved energy.
Hey, with more energy, I could… well…
The Result: I’m reaching for caffeine. Sugar. Snorting the air directly over this lamp. No improved energy. The sofa calls every afternoon, and I succumb to the cushions.
The little lamp said, “You’re high maintenance.”
Improved mood: Oof. If this works, I could rid my cabinets of coping chocolates, cancel at least a few of my Couch Lady sessions, and finish the WIP!
Ooh! Ooh! I hope this works.
The Results: The cats, Little Miss Muse, Zeppo, Trudi the Office Goose, and the Hubs have gathered copious amounts of data…
My ooh! turns to a deflated oof!
The little lamp said, “For the love of… Eat the chocolate. Call the Couch Lady.”
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I first had the lamp in the office. A little soothing glow in the corner of the desk while I worked. But I moved it to the bedroom on top of a wooden dresser because of that “sleep benefit” thing.
Every night, one, two, or three cats sniff the basket, sometimes taking a lick of the salt, and then wrinkling their faces up or doing that jaw-drop cat-gag thing to remind me and themselves that they do not like licking the lamp.
Why they continued to lick it is beyond me.
The cats have three plush cat trees. They have claimed the recliners. They have confiscated the sectional sofa. But they also have claimed every surface in our home larger than six-by-six inches as a potential perch. Items on or near these areas will be knocked over, knocked off, scooted along, or, evidently, licked and gagged at.
My little basket of glowing calmness takes up the spot on the dresser from where they perch and judge me as I attempt sleep.
Things take a turn when I spot a meandering puddle on the dresser.
Instantaneous revolt floods me. Then a tick of rage. (How quickly I escalate from “relatively okay, all things considered” to “revolted rage” in the direct vicinity of this happy little lamp further leads me to believe the data on mood improvement and stress reduction is woefully lacking.)
I blame the felines, though this would be the first instance of this sort from any of them. Someone must’ve become so irritated with the placement of the lamp that he/she decided to, well, voice their opinion via a clear and direct method.
I take a breath and do what any cat/dog/child parent does upon finding a mystery puddle. I tentatively place the tip of my index finger into the wet and… smell it.
Nothing.
Rage and revolt deescalate ten notches to irritated confusion. I was thoroughly expecting urine.
Another dip and sniff. Nothing.
Is this… some other feline biological process, or urine from a very well-hydrated cat? Diluted beyond scent? (I’ve never encountered a fully hydrated feline. We buy high-powered litter because of this very problem.)
I take myself and my wet fingertip to the kitchen for a roll of paper towel and cleaner—though I’m not even sure what I’m cleaning.
Return to the dresser. Soak up the liquid and stare at the dripping toweling. No yellow. No scent.
Super-dee-duper hydrated feline.
I move the wire basket to check just how far the puddle meandered, and…
The lamp drips from the inside.
What?
A super-dee-duper hydrated feline made its opinion known directly on top of the lamp, but only got the bottom rocks wet? Or the top rocks dried and this happened a while ago and…
Irritated confusion inches back up to revolted rage. I turn to discover all three cats looking at me from the bed. “Which one? Which of you did this?”
Their faces give nothing away. Not one whisker twitches.
I unplug the lamp, deciding I’m not lighting up cat-peed rocks for the sake of relaxation. The basket is even rusted on the bottom. How long has this been going on?
I carry the thing outside to the bin, dropping it with a thud, and then a guilty pang hits me.
What if this is a “thing” with salt lamps? What if my endless list of unrealistic expectations caused a malfunction on a mystical level and the lamp literally wept?
Inside, I wash my hands and scour down the top of the dresser. As soon as I dry it off, two cats reclaim the perch.
I’m back to irritated confusion.
I google “salt rock lamp puddle.”
It’s a thing. People all over the world have experienced the Himalayan lamp leak. It’s a process with real science and vocabulary and everything. Charts if you want them.
But… After asking for feline forgiveness, I’m gonna stick with endless list of unrealistic expectations thrust on a simple, happy Himalayan lamp. I was just supposed to enjoy the glow.
And now it’s at the bottom of the trash bin, all spilled out and mingled with, well, I’ll let you use your imagination. Let’s just say those rocks have more to deal with now than tufts of cat hair.
Ah, well.
Will I get another salt rock lamp?
Perhaps.
I’ll have to have a proper spot for it—one that doesn’t interfere with cat perching. One that’s saltwater-proof. I’ve no idea how to prevent the cats from licking and gagging at it (what in the world?).
The new little lamp and I will chat about what it’s like to live in the Paul house with all these gagging cats and unrealistic expectations.
The little lamp will end up weeping at some point during this conversation.
I’ll share a piece of coping chocolate with it. Take it to one of my Couch Lady sessions.
And then tell it to shine on.
Because my WIP isn’t done, and I do enjoy that glow…
