I Decided to give Chiropractic Treatment a Crack

The time it takes for me to get from sitting in the waiting room to being embraced and snapped by a large man with a shaved head is probably about fifty seconds. Oh sure, he asks me how I’m going and if anything’s improving but there’s no genuine pleasantries prior to my ass being in the air and crazy alien chiropractic equipment is let loose all about my spine. I mean normally I’d have to at least buy a dinner for someone before I got to do that kind of thing. Seconds later I’ve been rushed out the door and the next person is wafting past me.

The chiropractor is a strange and exciting place which I both dread and anticipate. There is a part of me that loves the chiropractor. It’s the part of me that says ‘that was fucking awesome’ every time I crack my knuckles so loud that the people watching TV in the next room come in to see what’s going on. There is a part of me that hates the chiropractor. It’s the part in me that knows what a skeleton looks like and knows what cracking sounds like and can’t find the equation that results in both these things equalling something positive.

Today I took my back X-rays in for his perusal. He wasn’t able to give me a solid diagnosis, other than to reaffirm my need for a CT scan but he did finally take a few extra seconds during one of my appointments to step back and admire my spine in all its radiographed glory. A wave of silence suddenly ebbed over him and I saw a mist in his eyes as he admired its perfect, restored straightness with the sense of pride that a new father would have for his first son. Shortly after, when he was bending my legs in different directions on the platform my knee brushed his crotch and I swear I felt he had a half wood.