My back has a history, like a scarred Irishman who was molested by a priest and now self medicates by binge drinking rubbing alcohol. I was pleasantly surprised when I made it to the fourth month at my new job without my back slipping out of place, and I was able to focus my energy on the other blessings associated with working an office job, like growing an ass on top of my ass.
Eventually I started to feel the tightening of my back as it descended into depression, but I didn't get my two sizes too small panties in a knot because I had forgotten something important: I no longer work a physically healthy job. And forgetting that vital piece of information was a mistake, because last Wednesday my back attempted suicide.
I booked an appointment with a new chiropractor (not the one who tried to give me a pap smear in 2008-- I only go to him when I'm lonely). I was so far into the pain-o-sphere that I was thrilled to have this man (a man who, in my disoriented and desperate state, resembled Jesus) give me a chiropractic adjustment for the mere cost of $90.
"What would you rate your pain on a scale of one to ten?" Jesus asked.
I looked around the room at the accumulation of Anne Geddes prints, clay casts of children's hands, medical posters of pregnant bellies, plaques boasting parental quotes, and the daddy of all heteronormative propaganda-- a six foot high poster of a man holding a premature infant in his hands with the word "FAMILY" beneath it in ovum-exciting font. I wondered if I had I accidentally booked an appointment with a vagina doctor-- a legitimate vagina doctor, not a chiropractor who wanted to be a vagina doctor.
"Hard to say . . . I've never given birth," I said sarcastically, yet cheerfully, aiming to make shit weird, and I stared at him long and hard with a look that said and for fuck sakes, please tell me you didn't decorate this room yourself, Jesus. He chuckled awkwardly (score) and asked if an eight sounded like an appropriate pain level. I was originally going for a six because I tend to perceive myself as a pussy, but eight sounded okay, and I nodded in agreement.
Once the chiropractic adjustment was underway, it became apparent to both Jesus and I that on the scale of relativity, I had grossly underestimated my pain level. Either the average chiropractic patient is a whiner, or I need to stop comparing the severity of my pain to disembowelment scenes from horror movies. Jesus informed me that my pelvis had rotated approximately half an inch out of place, and while the pain would subside with treatment, my actual healing time would be on par with a fracture and would take up to four to six weeks.
From sitting on my ass at my office job.
The next morning I drove to my second chiropractic appointment, and I admit that I was so high on muscle relaxants that I shouldn't have been driving a bike with training wheels, let alone a motorized vehicle that I unhealthily worship and refer to as "my husband." At this point the pain was starting to get to me, and when I entered the waiting room of the chiropractic clinic and realized that I had walked into a Mommy Blogger Convention, my body went into Anaphylactic shock.
I struggled to balance myself as I wiggled my fashion faux-pas, UGG rip-offs from my feet within a sea of spinning, screaming, toddlers. Must not crush God's children, my mind chanted, must not crush God's children. After helping one of God's children find her shoes while protecting her fingers from getting pinched in the door (no worries parents, I GOT IT), I shuffled my way through the ankle biters like a career crack head and looked for an empty seat, but there were none, and I resorted to a child's storage bench in a tight canal of the Mommy Bloggers Club House.
After bracing myself and contorting myself in prep for the unavoidable pain I was going to experience, I became seated. As my body shook, I lifted my head to see five chipper women sitting across from me, four of whom were pregnant, none of whom would make eye contact. My neurotic, pain stupor told me that this was because they felt twangs of guilt that tugged at their self deserving egos, but there was no way in hell they were going to offer their seat to Whore Without Child.
I, too am glad I'm not an alcoholic.
Since partaking in the Sits Girls Blogger challenge (no, I'm not linking) a few years ago, I feel uncomfortable when surrounded by more than two young, white, middle class mothers at the same time, and being around four pregnant women was on par with day five of an untreated yeast infection. My paranoia lead me to plot revenge-- Guess who's going to park in the Expectant Mother parking stalls from now on? ME, BITCHES.
Shortly after Super Mommy Blogger supported my prejudice by giving a monologue about "little boys being the best cuddlers," and I was like, REALLY, we're now gendering CUDDLES?, and I silently wished for a chiropractic office that catered to gays, or the elderly, or elderly gays, Never Blogged Mom of Two Teens responded with an open ended, "my son is sixteen." Super Mommy Blogger heaved a sigh of pleasure at the notion that these miniature beings of cuteness could grow into autonomous individuals who download midget porn on the family computer, but as she reached her Hallmark card climax, Never Blogged ominously added, " . . . just. you. wait."
And for the first time in days, I smiled.
When I later hit my $300 price limit (I don't have health benefits yet), I dropped out of chiropractic treatment. My back has improved by about 50%, which is largely in thanks to working from home since the 'incident,' and I am happy to report that after I sobered up from the gnawing pain, I stopped plotting revenge against young mothers.
No really, no need to applaud.
The suicide attempt of my back seemed to be the final blow after four months of experiencing neurotic thoughts, constipated chakras, and an over all sense of physical and mental unhealthiness. At this juncture I'm not sure how long it will take before I'll be able to resume sitting on my ass for eight hours a day.
Maybe sitting on my ass for eight hours a day just isn't me.