I appreciate awkward situations more than most people. I tried to change early on in my life when various and assorted men didn’t appreciate my profound love of being wildly inappropriate, but resistance was futile. I yam what I yam and it takes a bigger man than me to make me feel uncomfortable.
Last week I met that man.
It all started when I jacked up my back upon lifting some rice cakes from the trunk of my car. Typically I would whine to Mr. Man until he rubbed the hurt away, but as he is currently a cripple, I found myself whining to a complete stranger.
As I generally have a pretty dim view of traditional Western medicine, you might assume that means I’m a big fan of the back-crackers. You would be crazy wrong. It is my considered opinion that chiropractors should be forced to wear wizard hats and mood rings and should never, in any situation, be referred to as doctor.
Unless you are a chiropractor, in which case I love them and want to be one when I grow up.
This particular practitioner of bone popping came highly recommended from someone who must secretly hate me. “He’s really good,” she said. It’s my own fault for not asking what exactly he was good at. For all I know she was referring to his mad tightrope walking skills.
So I walk in and immediately I’m freaking out because the OCD Chick in me noticed all his magazines were in a giant, messy blob on the table and it was first thing in the morning. That could only mean that he left the night before knowing full well his magazines were a disaster. What kind of person does that?
Evidently a chiropractor.
It was all down hill from there.
While filling out the papers his receptionist expertly explained to me by saying, “This un here is so he can treat you and this un here is so he can git paid by your insurance and this un here is about that new hippa,” I heard the unmistakable sounds of Peter Frampton coming from behind closed doors.
You’re thinking, Hey Sher…. Peter Frampton is all good. What’s the big woo?
I’ll tell you what the big woo is, Jack Leg. It wasn’t so much a Frampton Comes Alive CD as it was My Chiropractor Trying to Come Alive with his very own guitar. Yeah. I’m not even making that up. He was having a little jam session and playing so loud that had he been even a little good at it, I would have been inspired to flick my Bic and maybe even throw my panties on the counter.
When finally he put down his axe and came to usher me into his tiny pretend doctor room, I was anxious yet optimistic that despite the signs of unprofessional madness all around me, he would be capable of fixing what ailed me.
The fact that he grabbed me, whirled me around, tucked my shirt up under my bra and bent me over, all before we even said howdy, should have been an indication that perhaps I made a bad health care decision. I just figured it must be the international chiropractic hello much like improper groping is the way cops and dentists have always said hello to me.
“Climb up here and lie face down,” he said, obviously pleased he had chosen a profession that gave him the opportunity to say that to women on a daily basis. Like a good girl I complied, only to be thanked by having him pull my pants so far down it was clear he felt my back pain was coming from a freak vagina injury.
“Does it hurt when I do this?” I don’t want to kiss and tell, but that is a question I’ve been asked by every man with whom I’ve ever been intimate. All one of them. (Mr. Man likes it when we play the Pretend Sher Was a Virgin When We Met game.)
Always the delicate Southern petunia, I answered, “Sweet Jesus! Hell yes it hurts when you do that!”
So he did it some more.
“We’re going to put an ice pack on your back, but you can’t have anything between it and your skin,” he said as I tried to look fully at ease with my shirt around my ears and my pants around my knees.
“Won’t that give me frost bite?”
His answer, and I swear this is actually what he said was, “Maybe it will and maybe it won’t.”
Lying there listening to the sounds of his weird rapist breathing and inhaling the combination of Aspercreme and Patchouli, I wondered if I was actually being treated for back pain or being violated by a thirty-something who was losing his hair and could only get women by pretending he knew what he was doing.
Once my back was approximately the temperature of Walt Disney’s head, he moved in for the kill. He twisted me around in a position I’ve only been in one other time in my life and that involved Tequila, a much younger man and a series of pulleys.
He snuggled up so close to me I was certain that any minute the lights would dim, a disco ball would drop from the ceiling and Marvin Gaye would start singing, “If you feel like I feel, baby...then come on. Let’s get it on…”
He tucked my knees in his crotch, held onto my butt and pulled me so close and so hard that were my tubes not tied, I think it’s reasonable to assume I could have been impregnated with chiropractor sperm.
Suffice it to say that I did not return for my follow up appointment when he told me, “I’d really like to see you again this afternoon, but I’m going to be out of town. How about tomorrow?”
I think Blue Cross may have paid for the worst date of my life.
Sign Your Name Across My Heart. Remember this one? Oooo-eeeee. Gotta love those 80's boys who were so manly in such a girlie kind of way.
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