The long-awaited back adjustment

It's always an adventure when I visit the naturopath. What will he do to me this time, I wonder. Will he stick me full of needles? Will he give me a magic potion? Will I drink it or rub it on my stomach while reciting a Walt Whitman poem? (I just made that up, he's never asked me to recite poetry.) I never know what I will get when I visit the naturopath, and I'm always slightly bemused when I leave. Today was no exception.

He rubbed his hands gleefully when I came in. Uh-oh, I thought.

“Hi, come on in! I have some new things to try on you.”

“Okay,” I said gamely. Great. How much is this going to cost, I thought, but didn't ask out loud.

“I've wanted to learn these techniques for a long time, but I had to finish my other degree first,” he said, pointing at a wall of framed certificates that could have been made with PowerPoint and a laser printer.

Feeling some trepidation, I laid down on the table, the one with the hole where your butt goes (never thought about the unsettling implications of that hole before now), and he proceeded to do a round of unfamiliar muscle testing techniques. He was brisk, energetic, and efficient. Then he told me to sit up. He counted my vertebrae and then shot me in the spine with a little gun.

Not shot me, but poked me, pushed me, I don't know what the gizmo did. It was just a thump. Nothing exploded, don't worry. I have no idea what the purpose of the procedure was, but he tested more stuff, shot me a few more times in various places along my spine. Then he torqued my rib cage back into alignment (who knew it was misaligned?). Then he told me to wrap my arms around myself and give myself a great big hug, because he was going to give me the come to jesus back adjustment he couldn't do until now, because I wasn't strong enough to handle it. Really? For three years you've been saving this moment?

I sat up and wrapped my arms around myself, thinking oh no, here it comes, the moment when my neck snaps, my brain strokes out, my bowels void into the hole in the table. Before I had a chance to draw a breath, he said, “Breathe out.” Then he put his arms around me, and all I could see was his blue shirt. It was strangely intimate. He smelled mildly like b.o. I bet he uses no deodorant. He's a natural guy, after all. And then, while I was inhaling his unique scent and wondering if this looked as ridiculous as it felt, he lifted me straight up off the table, leaving my back somewhere behind. Craaaaack. My spine unraveled like the San Andreas. He did it one more time and let me go.

I sat there, wishing I could shake myself like a dog, work out the kinks, try to regain my grasp on reality. Who am I, again? What just happened?

“I've just done a major detox on your system,” he cackled. “Drink three liters of water daily for the next two days!”

I was out of his office in less than a half hour, and only $105 poorer, which is the least I've ever paid him, I think, in the three years I've been seeing him. Bargain! Was I floating just a little as I walked out to my car? Where's my car, again?

I had enough energy after I left to stop at the grocery store for vittles to replenish my empty larder, but after that I was tuckered out. De-toxing is tiring work, apparently. I hit the mattress when I got home, and slept like a dead person until my bladder woke me up. (Damn, I hate drinking water!) I worked on my Literature Review for awhile, updating sources, trying to make sense of the nonsensical. That got boring fast. There's nothing on TV worth watching. The cat is draped over my wrists as I type this. It's 10:00 pm, time for bed, and I'm wide awake and probably won't get to sleep until 3:00 am. Curses! But at least I'm detoxed!