One day my children are going to wake up and understand the internet and google my name and hopefully find me and not the porn star that shares the same name. Well, that’s the only part to be hopeful about. My husband eye rolls every time someone new discovers my bullshit (like his two coworkers recently, which I think is fantastic because someone should fuck with him at the office when I can’t) and he for one is going to be PISSED when the boys find out what Mommy is really like. And then they will be pissed when they realize they ever listened to me, especially since I spent their young years still behaving like a moron but acting like I should have an influence over their future and well-being. Ahhh, parenthood. A journey full of smoke, mirrors, tricks and lies. I love it.
So last Friday I went to a brand new chiropractor for the first time in ten years because I think I fucked up my back somehow and there are times where I’m more comfortable walking around at a 45 degree angle like a fucking protractor and it’s got me deathly afraid that I am going to be that old woman who walks around looking like a candy cane. For decades. So I go to this place, knowing he is American, which has me very excited that for once in 7 years I’ll deal with a doctor that isn’t a complete dick by nature and actual expresses some concern and doesn’t tell me flat out that I’m fat or lazy or impossible to deal with, or at the very least he’ll lie about those things.
Well first of all, I must have walked in to the best looking damned chiropractor office on earth. My doctor is easy on the eyes and the physiotherapist on the floor below who discusses your x-rays with you? Florian? He’s so fucking easy on the eyes that I just wanted to ask if I could lay on a couch in his office and stare at him for the rest of the day. I know that is creepy and I don’t care. This man is delicious and I’ll go to that office every day for the rest of my life or until Florian quits. I told the Mr. this when I got home and he just shook his head and was like, you’re an idiot, but if I could trade one of my celebrity passes for a German Florian pass, I fucking would.
Anyway, I’m telling the new chiropractor friend why I’m there and I quickly point out all the things I know I do wrong to contribute to my poor posture and body issues, which is basically everything in his THINGS NOT TO DO TO YOUR BODY book, which I’m sure is what he was pulling from during our conversation. Then he’s massaging me and cracking my back, doing a few moves where it would appear he’s wrestling me on a table, twisting me around like a pretzel and basically details my problems are sleeping on my stomach, poor posture, being generally lazy, lacking muscles of any kind, something I think about standing and walking funny which I already knew, and just did a lot of nodding at me and eye squinting, I think because in his head he was trying to figure out whether or not to take me seriously.
Near the end of the session I put my shirt back on and said something that made sense to me but I guess not to him, “So it was when I was in Paris and the break dancer tried to align my back that I knew I had to come to one of you because it instantly made me feel like magic.”
He looked at me like, no, I absolutely don’t have to take her seriously now. “What break dancer in Paris did something to your back?”
I carried on like he gets a lot of these stories, forgetting that I have to stop doing shit like this when I meet someone for the first time.
“So I took my friend’s daughter to Paris and she’s 15 but I thought it was a good idea to take her somewhere worldy and then I thought it would be nice to take her down by the river to get drinks and let her try drinks because that’s how nice of a person I am. (in very little consumption for anyone judging me, thanks) So we’re there having a gin by the water when this break dancer approaches us about something (being pretty, which might have worked on her but at this stage of my life, coming at me with, do you want me to buy you french fries is an easier get me in bed tactic than you are beautiful) and tells us he’s in a break dancing troop or whatever they go by. He shows us a FB page to back his qualifications because I was staring at him and probably said NO YOU AREN’T because it’s been a life long dream of mine to be friends with a break dancer who will teach me The Freeze or how to pop and lock but no one is ever willing and so I’m judging him because I don’t need some stranger to go get my fucking hopes up and then break my heart all in five minutes. So she’s convinced but I’m not until he says, the group dances down by the river every night, want to go? So of course I fucking want to go, I LIVE TO FUCKING GO, and I ignore the fact that its me, my friend’s daughter and a random Parisian break dancer who wants to bring us to water, under a covered bridge in the shadows of Notre Dame.
LIFE IS ABOUT MAKING MEMORIES, PEOPLE. STAY WITH ME AND STOP BEING SCARED FOR ME, MOM.
So we get down there and shocking, there are no other dancers. But, true to his promise, he does all of the moves i Love the most in life and I’m beyond Christmas excited and I’m flailing around and clapping and so happy that I am wearing my new Parisian hammer pants which are suited for break dancing and he’s giving me a lesson that involves letting me try to put my weight on my hands and he’s holding my legs over my head, letting me pretend I’m doing The Freeze. Now I know I lack coordination, muscle tone and sobriety but he seems to think I’m just not understanding that “if you put your weight on the right parts of your hands, your legs will go up and stay easy.” Listen, fancy French accented dancer, it doesn’t matter where I try to drop 140 pounds of ALL WOMAN on my tiny hands, these little tree trunk legs of mine aren’t going up or staying unless there’s fucking magic involved.
“Maybe you need work on your back”, he says, and my friend with me is now Snapchatting this whole incident so I feel happy that we’ll have evidence of my success as a break dancer or our murder by the river. He tells me to sit between his legs and he starts massaging me and cracking me in a way that reduced me to the wordless, drooling state I get in when my girl Olga washes my hair at the salon. He’s informing me that he can tell I don’t drink any water and that I don’t stand up straight and then with no permission outside of the drunken sexual noises I was probably making, he took both cheeks and cracked my neck in the manner that makes you fearful of paralysis but then super happy and relaxed when you released you indeed did not become paralyzed and you are just not fucking sore anymore. It was truly magical, honestly, and I’ve considered going back to find him and ask if I can bring him home to live in our spare room as our nanny doctor for Mommy. Anyway.
Then he made me try break dancing again which was not one ounce more successful now that my back was cracked. Now, I was even more relaxed and so I fell on my head more easily and finally he was just like, ok, no more trying for today, you were great.”
I took a breath.
“So that’s how I knew I had to start coming to get regular treatment.”
He surely thought I was insane.
Then this weekend, I went to Oktoberfest in Munich and drank 16 beers and came in and out of slow face about 63 times and decided around 11pm after a solid 12 hours of drinking would be the appropriate time to ride the fastest rides ever. Well you know what you forget when you’re drunk on rides after 12 hours of drinking? Neck control. You forget to hold your fucking neck up, which is why my head was like a bobble head on that octopus looking ride that whips you back and forth doing like 60mph on a fair ground, making you fear death every two seconds. So my head is just flopping in the wind, slamming against the ride and then I got to my hotel at 3am and drunk slept on it and then woke up thinking I was paralyzed and spent the next two days unable to walk, lift my head or generally function in life. So I email the new chiropractor friend and explain to him what has happened and then he informs me I gave myself whiplash, a normal outcome of Fest for a mother of two who is nearing 40 years of age, and that yes, he will see me because he’s positive I need help in life.
And so I saw him again, and to thank him for seeing me twice in one week about two completely unrelated self-induced personal injuries, I told him the story about my German landlord getting the strange from someone that resulted in two kids and a divorce from his wife, which then resulted in him telling me I need to get out of his house.
But that’s a whole other story.