I had my first appointment with a chiropractor today. This was a "free consultation," so the last thing I expected was to actually get what they call an "adjustment." I was wrong. I left the massage parlor (where his office was, don't judge me) fifteen minutes after meeting him with a spring in my step and a pip in my pep.
This was my first adjustment. Needless to say, when the very attractive chiropractor was massaging my glutes (a.k.a. "fanny") to find out "where I carried the most tension," I felt a bit strange. Not awkward, but so comfortable I just knew something was wrong. After all, I'm a happily married woman! I shouldn't be comfortable with a tall, well-built, blue-eyed blonde man (estimated height: 6'2") rubbing my derriere, but there I was, happy as the proverbial clam. Alas, the butt analysis was negative ("Feels real good," he said. "Thank you," I replied) so the focus shifted to my spine and neck.
We moved on to the neck adjustment. One excruciating crunch later, I felt lighter and more alert. We moved on to the mid-back. This adjustment was accomplished by me folding my arms over my chest while he basically threw his body down on top of mine. Before any of you begin transposing the surf scene from "From Here to Eternity" onto a chiropractor's table, let me assure you that this adjustment was accompanied by me making the least sexy sound known to man. This combination of grunt and groan had all of the aesthetic appeal of a diarrheic bagpipe player who forgot to remove his instrument before a strategic retreat to the loo.
The lower back, which I expected to be the motherlode of adjustment, so to speak, was surprisingly anticlimactic. Bend this leg, straighten that one, turn your head, cough... you know how it goes. Once I was done, Dr. Nick (really) told me, "I really hope I see you again." I went straight home to my wonderful husband, Sven, whose idea this was in the first place. I hope he's pleased with how well it went.
I know I am. Next time, I'm taking a camera.
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