Things That Make Me Cry
The list is short:
1. Animal rescue shows
2. That SPCA commercial where Sarah McLachlan sings Angel
3. Anything related to animals in jeopardy
4. That beautiful pair of Gucci pumps that I refuse to get rid of even though they have made me crippled
5. My first Rolfing session
And that’s what I want to talk about.
I have, for the past 3 or 4 months, battled a progressively irritating hitch in my left hip that has become debilitating (see #4 on the hit parade above as suspected cause of aforementioned hitch).
Actually, I have no idea if those shoes caused the problem since I only wore them after the wounds from the previous wearing healed over which is to say, not very often.
Truth be told, I suspect the problem comes from a less fashionable perpetrator: a very worn down pair of thick, rubber flip-flops that I have since thrown out. The Guccis are still around but have been encased in Plexiglas and placed on the mantel as a reminder of the pain of quitting. Kind of like a monument to a final, unsmoked cigarette.
But none of that matters now because my problem is what it is.
The “is” in this case is excruciating.
The chiropractor has helped.
My new Rolfing therapist has helped more even though my first visit was akin to an enthusiastic greeting at the check-in counter of the Hanoi Hilton (apologies to anyone reading this who may have actually been an unfortunate resident there – I mean no disrespect).
I wasn’t really sure what to expect.
But I had heard rumors that pain might be involved.
Pain Schmain! I have a high tolerance.
Uh….note to self: rethink this notion.
She zeroed in on the feet.
Holy shit! Not the feet!
They are sensitive, these feet. Probably because of my ridiculously high arch which is a family trait. So high are these genetically flawed dogs that my old granny went so far as to accuse my sister of having hooves rather than feet. Hers really are hooves….of the cloven variety but that’s another story.
Okay…back to me and my pain.
I think my feet actually grew mouths and a tongue once she started working on me because I heard a disembodied scream that seemed to erupt from a southerly place .
I felt the need to confess military secrets but I had none.
I yelled out (from my real mouth this time) “Okay! Okay! It was Col. Mustard in the library with a monkey wrench, for chrissake!”
False confessions were futile.
How about pleading?
No. Pleading would deplete too much needed oxygen and I needed all I could get just to keep from fainting.
I have never known such pain and that’s not a joke.
And it was joyous!
That’s not a joke either.
It made me cry, this pain.
I could not get enough.
Two hours of torture flew by in the blink of an eye as this sprite of a woman, 90 pounds soaking wet, rolled over my twisted anatomy with arms of steel.
I think she may be bionic but I can’t be sure. I’d have to see her run.
I cannot wait for my next appointment.
Where I will cry again.
But this shit better work or I’m bustin’ the Plexiglas.