Warning: I am drinking as I write this. I just emptied the last of my peanut butter whiskey and chocolate liqueur into a glass. With some almond milk. And chocolate syrup. And I’m just going all in on it. Because look it.
But I think I’m still lucid enough to relay my most recent healthcare experience.
I don’t know if y’all remember my last chiro visit. I don’t have a great track record.
So I messaged Rogue and Fall Risk: I forgot to wear panties. I hope new chiro doesn’t ask me to get naked.
“If they try, please leave. Before you get naked.”
I mean, obviously I’m gonna stay. I’ll just try to keep my vagina covered. This time.
Because look. My legs don’t match.
They’re, like, two different sizes now. And they didn’t start that way.
My mom made them the same length.
And so I called yet another chiropractor. And went for a little visit.
He didn’t ask me to get naked.
Which. I mean, yeah. That’s good. I guess. I just. I mean, you don’t want me to get even a little naked…?
“So when did the pain start?”
A few years ago.
I’m a runner. I run ultras.
“And what does that mean?”
It means…I run. Not, like, sprint. But run. Jog. I guess. Trot. Kind of.
“Ultra. What does ultra mean?”
Oh. That’s any distance beyond a marathon.
“Oh. Wow. Ok…”
(Looking at my chart) “Well, it looks like you’re doing everything right…”
I am? That can’t be right. The fuck did I write on there??
“Yoga. Stretching. You said that helps some.”
Oh. Yeah. Yes. It does. Until I run again. Or get out of bed.
“Ok. Let’s have a look. Go ahead and lie down on your stomach.”
“No no. It’s fine.”
These are the sounds he made as he started at my shoulders of knots. And worked his way down my immovable back. And onto my swayless hips.
At one point, he started just pushing my right hip down. And watching it bounce back up.
Like it was a weeble wobble.
“See what happens when I push it into place and it pops back up? It’s not supposed to be back here.”
When he showed me later on the skeleton model what my right hip was actually doing. I mean, it seemed pretty impressive. Like maybe it should’ve been kind of a marketable dating strategy.
“It’s ok. This is all fixable. You’ll be running fast again in no time.”
I mean, I never actually ran fast…
“First, we’ll get you some STIM. Then I’ll adjust you.”
And have y’all done this whole STIM thing?
Assistant chick walked me over to this back area. Where there is a row of humans. Lying face down. On tables. Hooked up to machines. Sending electricity into their bodies.
And if I had any self-preservation instincts, I might’ve excused myself right then and hobble trotted straight for my car.
This was absolutely some artificial intelligence taking over the world Matrix type shit.
But my plan going in was just to try to keep my vagina covered. So…
Clearly my self-preservation instincts are lacking.
And thank goodness.
Because this shit was ah-mazing.
I wanted to go down the row stealing everyone’s pads and attaching them all over my body.
But I didn’t.
When I was done getting electrocuted. Chiro Doc did all the manipulating.
And the sounds that emanated from my body. Not just the popping. And crackling. But the vocalizations. Because that shit was satisfying as fuck.
And every time he’d crack something. And I’d voice my satisfaction. He’d ask if I was ok.
Dude. I’m fine. These are my happy sounds. Just keep going.
So I’m going back tomorrow.
He figures I’m gonna respond quickly.
Because I’m an athlete.
And I’ll be super fast for next weekend’s ultra.
Which really sets an unreasonable expectation for me.
At least when I can complain of injury. No one expects me to be fast. Or beast a damn thing.
So if Chiro Doc does actually fix me. I may have to quit running.
Also. Who makes a full body STIM machine I can just climb inside of?