If you saw M. on the street, you’d probably peg her as a veterinarian, not an acupuncturist. She’s a faded blond gracefully in her early 40s, trim and sensible with a soft-spoken kindness. She mentioned tonight that she’s going to Minnesota for the holidays, presumably to visit a large family who is supportive but bemused at M.’s chosen career path as a practitioner of traditional Chinese medicine in the liberal den of Cambridge (or so my dramatic imagination speculates.)

Every week, M. starts out by inquiring about my health in the past week. I’m encouraged to keep track off every bodily aberrance: Were my hands and feet cold? How was my appetite? Any moodiness? Did I feel dizzy when I got out of bed in the morning? I am unaccustomed to anyone caring about my state of being to this degree, and it feels rude to allow the conversation to always dwell upon my ailments. My natural instinct is to reciprocate M.’s interest by inquiring about her health, her sleeping habits, her musculoskeletal discomforts. But that would be improper, so I consciously remind myself to be self-centered and freely share the details of my ongoing cold.

“A sore throat, coughing, congestion,” I tell M., who is writing down what I say. She wants to know everything: Is it a scratchy, dry sore throat? Or a painful, hurts-to-swallow sore throat? Where is the congestion? How often is the cough? What color is the phlegm? How often do I get colds? How long do they last? I secretly bask in M.’s attention, for her sympathetic manner makes me feel as though someone really, really cares about my humdrum case of the winter sniffles.

“We’ll do something tonight to take care of your cold,” M. says, which amazes me a bit. In the past month I’ve read a lot about acupuncture, but never any claims that it could help with colds. M. proceeded to stick 10 needles in me: 4 in my wrists, 5 in my feet and ankles, and 1 in my lower arm. I still have not looked at the needles while they are in my skin, but I trust M. when she tells me “They’re not all that interesting to look at.”

M. seems a tiny bit surprised to see me again. I believe I was flagrantly disoriented at the end of last week’s acupuncture session and did not display requisite enthusiasm to inspire confidence of my return. I have vague recollections of scheduling tonight’s appointment while fumbling socks onto my feet and gutting the contents of my purse in search of my wallet, all the while my body buzzed with the unblocked energy that soared through its meridans. “Yeah, yeah, next week sure…” I muttered, counting money for her payment. I felt as flaky as a hippie meditating in a granola factory.

By nature I’m a skeptic when it comes to alternative medicines. I do believe that positive thinking, stress reduction, and the power of the placebo can trump corporate-sponsored science, but there are limits. Hyponosis will never supplant immunization, and Zimbabwe’s cholera epidemic will not be stemmed with guided imagery. That being said, the results of my first treatment of acupuncture pleasantly surprised me. My major compliant saw some remedy, and the promised side benefits — better sleep, calmed mood — were evident, at least until the weekend.

So I returned again to roll up my sleeves, my shirt, and my pant legs, bearing my skin to M.’s needles. I believe she used 8 needles this week, although I cannot be sure because I still haven’t mustered the courage to look at the needles while they are in my body. As I lay on the table for 30 minutes to allow the needles to work, I did feel a little of the same foggy disorientation as last week. But not as much. This is significant, right? The acupuncture must be doing something if my body is affected differently from week to week. Right?

Still, I didn’t feel the sleepy relaxation that many practiced punctureers swear to. I lay on the table, vaguely energized and musing on the word “puncture,” which is one of those words that just gets me. It’s almost onomatopoeic, in that I can imagine hearing a needle make a little noise that sounds like “puncture” when it pierces the skin. The “acu” prefix does redeem it somewhat of its fright by implying that it’s accurate, precise, targeted puncture. Much more reassuring than “circumpuncture,” “pseudopuncture,” or “mispuncture.”