I went in for what I call a “shake and bake” recently, cooking like a chicken in a rotisserie under thousands of tiny red LED bulbs and then jiggling myself silly on a weight-loss platform.

I wasn’t entirely sure how I wound up in a “wellness spa” looking like a sweaty submariner under emergency drills in “The Hunt for Red October,” but most of the blame must be laid at the foot of my brother, who had been bugging me about doing a cold plunge for months.

“It’s amazing! You have to try it,” he said, describing how he pays for the privilege of dropping himself into a pool of 50-degree water once a week. Afterward, he said, he’d felt great. It had helped him with his back, he said, and his shoulder and his wrist.

“Don’t you still have problems with your wrist?” I asked, remembering how he’d just been telling me about his debilitating carpal tunnel.

“Yeah,” he said, “but it used to be way worse!”

He said he’d even pay for me to try it.

“Ehhhh, no thanks,” I said. “If I ever want to turn myself into a piece of cocktail ice, I’ll just walk outside naked during the winter.”

Well, he said, in addition to cold plunges, he’s also gotten into red light and ultraviolet sauna therapy. Maybe I should try one of those instead.

So, I did a bit of googling and found a spot advertising the “best red-light therapy” bed in the area. I booked an appointment, choking back a snarky comment about the price, which was $75 for 10 minutes.

Within days, I was driving to an office park in a remote suburb, looking for the sign for the “wellness spa.” Inside, it had the sterile, grey vibe of a hospital in “Blade Runner.” The receptionist, who looked strikingly normal for someone with so much access to high-tech “well-being,” greeted me and showed me into the treatment room.

“I hope you like it hot!” she said cheerfully, showing me a bed that looked a lot like the tanning machines I used as a teenager in the weeks before homecoming. She pointed at the protective glasses I had to wear and demonstrated how to turn the machine on and off.

“And here’s the vibration platform,” she said, pointing to a high-tech plate with a railing at the top. “Just turn it up to at least level 50 and do it for 10 minutes after your red-light session.”

I hadn’t booked any vibration station, so I was confused but willing to go whole-hog in my wellness experiment.

After she left, I lay back and let myself bake. After months of Midwestern winter, the bright light was relaxing. Was it “$450 an hour” relaxing? I don’t know. But it felt pretty good, and I wouldn’t have a sunburn to worry about afterward.

Full of UV-related bliss, I got myself dressed and stepped onto the vibration platform. I upped the levels as instructed, starting to worry when, at about level 20, I could feel my teeth threatening to rattle right out of my mouth.

“Move legs to angle side and allow hips vibration fat off,” it requested. I attempted to comply but no matter how weirdly I positioned myself, I couldn’t get past the feeling I was doing it wrong.

After my 10 minutes of shaking torture was completed, I stumbled on my sea legs to the front desk to check out.

“It’s great, isn’t it?” asked the receptionist, clearly expecting another rave review and another wellness convert.

“Very nice,” I agreed, handing my credit card to her.