Sometimes we columnists put ourselves in harm’s way so that you, our readers, won’t have to. That is why I spent part of my Sunday afternoon with a lit candle in my ear.
For the record, I did not purchase Wally’s Natural Ear Candles because I have an ear wax problem. Nor does Wally claim that his beeswax candles are designed to treat an ear wax problem.
I say “he,” but there doesn’t seem to be a Wally at Wally’s, unless he is the unnamed son of the company’s founders. The founders, the “About Us” section of the company website tells us, were seeking “a more holistic approach” to their boy’s ear problems.
The “centuries-old tradition of ear candling” worked, they say, but as much as they might have wanted to offer their candles as a treatment for ear problems, they probably figured they’d best not: A host of serious medical advice websites warn that candling is both unsafe and unproven.
In other words, you’re likelier to drip wax into your ear than draw wax out of it.
And so, the packaging says nothing about ear wax removal (“This is NOT a medical device and is not intended to treat or cure a condition of the body”) and everything about taking “advantage of your precious moments to melt away your daily stresses and frustrations.”
For the record, I do not have any daily stresses or frustrations, or at least none worth talking about. Having recently watched a documentary on “The Troubles” in Northern Ireland, my official position is that any day your neighborhood isn’t being bombed is a good day.
So how, you may be wondering, did I come to purchase Wally’s Natural Ear Candles? Well, I had an appointment at my local pharmacy for my latest COVID shot and there was a bit of a queue.
I had prepared for that eventuality by bringing a magazine. As interesting as the New Yorker’s review of Ariel Dorfman’s latest book was, I found myself distracted by the names and claims of all the products in the Eye/Ear Care aisle. Indeed, a better way to tamp down your daily stresses and frustrations is to visit your local pharmacy and contemplate all the ailments you do not have.
As I shifted from foot to foot in Aisle 7, I was grateful that my eyes were neither dry nor itchy, my ears neither waxy nor ringing, and therefore I did not need to purchase OCuSoft or Celluvisc or Lumify or Rohto or Zaditor or Naphcon, no matter how “doctor recommended” or “clinically proven” they are.
Looking across the aisle, I was comforted that I did not need a paternity test or a nerve miracle.
Lifting my gaze to Aisles 1-6, I took further satisfaction in knowing that I did not, at least at that moment, need laxatives, antacids, reading glasses, wound care or personal intimacy products.
The one buzzkill: the colonoscopy prep products, which I’ll be in the market for two months from now.
I then returned my gaze to Aisle 7, where my eyes lit on the tall, slim package of Wally’s ear candles. “It’s your moment,” it said, “make the most of it.”
So I did.
At $9.79, Wally’s two-pack seemed a bit spendy, but it was, after all, the “Luxury Collection,” and, of course, no price is too high when it comes to serving you, the reader.
The next day, ably assisted by my forbearing wife, I followed the recommended precautions: We shielded me, as best we could, from “flame, ash and melting wax” with “a protective device,” which is to say, a moist towel, and we positioned a bowl of water and scissors nearby so we could cut the ash end off the candle as it burned down.
I made sure NOT to force or push the candle into my ear or ear canal.
And then I “let the comforting warmth and rhythmic sounds contribute to a sense of relaxation.”
Or tried to. It’s hard to relax when you’re worrying about setting yourself on fire, damaging your eardrums, hoping your ears will look attractive in a photograph, and above all, paying close attention to the experience for the purpose of writing about it.
As I reclined with the flaming candle in my ear, I imagined the snickering of firefighters when they learned what caused my house to burn down.
When my wife told me that holding the candle in my ear between two fingers made it look like I was smoking a cigar with the wrong orifice, I began snickering. I thought of my dad, who sometimes stuck his stogie in his ear as a joke.
I was particularly curious about the rhythmic sounds. You know how, when the last track of a record dies away, all you hear is the needle on spinning vinyl? That’s what it sounded like. Not unpleasant, but not particularly soothing, either.
The same could be said of the smell of burning beeswax.
The good news: I did not scorch my flesh or torch my house or damage my hearing and my colonoscopy is still two months away.
