I like to practice safe flex by going to the chiropractor. Several days ago, I missed the regular path I was walking on when before I knew it, I fell and my backside was completely contorted. I’m convinced that the central purpose of a backbone is to stumble onto furniture in the dark. The fall knocked me out and my boyfriend tried reviving me in different ways. With the car alarm, pretending he was on the phone with another woman, and drowning me with a can of Red Bull. After my irascible resuscitation, I figured it was best to see a doctor. My sixty-three years had already arched my sensitive small spine. But there was nothing small about the pain I was suffering. And because I had goldy locks streaked through my hair, my primary care physician assumed that just because I’m into quality assurance, I must have tripped while jumping from a hard bed to a soft bed. He must have thought I was either a hooker, or I went walking in the woods raiding houses where bears reside. Except I’m not into unlawful entry.
When I woke up this morning, I had no plans on being this fragile. Or this satirical. I ended up going to my chiropractic king. He makes my heart sing. He makes everything, groovy. I indubitably admire this man’s handiwork. He certainly has gone where no man has gone before. Interpret that however you want. He asked me how I hurt myself and I told him I wasn’t sure, but I did have a dream that I was doing a highwire circus act with The Flying Wallendas and there was no safety net. He said that I could do a lot for my body by eliminating extreme entertainment that leads to abnormal curvature of the vertebral column. But I saw the look on his face. He really wanted to tell me that once again, in the case of crackpot versus circus acts, the ground always wins. He also mentioned that I wasn’t very well adjusted. I didn’t ask him for much….just that he holds me tight, and moves me. Women want to be kneaded by wild thingies. Again, construe that any way you please. I meant through vigorous and healing hand movements.
Pity me for all the moan I made since I had a small misalignment in the spinal segment causing immense irritation to my nerves. Normally, I’m taking Tylenol for headache pain caused by Cromolyn sodium I take for the allergy I acquired from Zanamivir for the uneasy stomach from the Methylphenidate I take for my short attention span caused by the Hyoscine Hydrobromide which is for motion sickness generated from Atropene, that anti-diarrheal. I’ve been feeling contempt for all these plotting pill companies. To alleviate the discomfort, I sat in a steaming bath. Then I put my phone on vibrate and tried placing it on my back. I ended up with curvature of the arm bone. Then I had the rather somber thought of calling the suicide hot line. If I were to choose the best face that described how I felt, my smiley face turned into that of James Caan who endured nightmarish captivity in Misery.
It was my chiropractor who saved the day. I stretched out onto his adjustment bench where he explained the partial unilateral collapse of formation and bilateral failures of segmentation. Then the snoring began. Who knows. I may have passed a little gas on the table as well. While my fine devotee of spinal manipulation is adjusting me, he tells amusing jokes and gives good backrubs. It’s not like being naked with a masseuse where there’s oil and dark lighting involved and you feel the need for a sextastically chisled bikini bod besides being worried that they are going to rub you the wrong way. And when I leave this miracle workers office, I don’t have Pug or Shar-Pei looking facial features from being squished in the face cradle like I do when I get a massage. Although he could use some hot stones and bring in his three brothers, tripling my pleasure and tripling my fun.
As a kid, I was always told to tuck in my tailbone. And they used to make me walk around with a stack of books on my head. If you had been there, you would have heard the sound of several publications simultaneously imploding on parque. I was sure my parents were trying to turn me into a totem pole, yet I had more the appearance of a knotty pine. If I slouched, then I wouldn’t have to tell people that their breath was bad. And I’d probably find more loose change on the earth’s floor. There are other useful things you can do when you’re not in the upright position. But I would hate to look bent, bothered, and bewildered.
My boyfriend won’t let me go to the healer by myself. He says the guy is too good looking. My alarmist is just creating needless worry and doesn’t realize that he is a megalomaniac on par with Alfred The Great and Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. Although the chiropractic professional cutie pie has helped me so much that in turn, I was thinking about going home with him to help with his yard work or something. His bulging biceps and ninja routines undoubtedly assure him a substantial increase in business. I’m certainly not a paid endorser for the man. But he has a fascinating approach to postural positioning. If only he would include crème brulee and when he’s done, I’m able to play Twister, bench press a piano, and possibly walk to the park without an aching worry. I do need to be more on guard against my human weaknesses. He told me that most injuries occur with men, when they are reaching for the remote during Dancing With The Stars.