Dont Mince Words

I noticed the reduced flexibility and tightness in my lower back many months ago. While I could still flip my legs over my head and be smothered by my boobs and gut in yoga class, I decided to see a chiro to determine if an adjustment would help me be more nimble. Three weeks of chiro visits left me envying women with walkers.

The doctor’s autographed picture with Lou Ferrigno was comforting, at first. If he could fix The Hulk, there was hope for me. I thought I was getting better until he said “for every action, there’s an equal and opposite reaction.” This was the excuse he gave me when I told him I had a pain in my ass radiating up my back to my neck and down to my foot, numbing it.

I cancelled all my future appointments and walked out. A few hours later, I was in a doc-in-the-box being prescribed muscle relaxants for the July 4th weekend. “You may have sciatica,” the female M.D. informed me. Of course, that sounded like something a Brooklyn Jewish mother gets, so I denied it.

My weekend up north consisted of ice, rest, elevation, pills and hot, beating showers. I managed to get upright long enough to attend a drag dinner show at a Paso Robles winery. I was feeling remarkably better thanks to the pill+alcohol combo. The next day, I was even better when we decided to go across the street and pick fava beans. That’s when I decided it would be a good time to sprain my ankle.

Slumped and hobbling, I elected to go home. I was never so thankful for cruise control in my life. I drove with my thumbs in order to reduce the need to press the brake or gas with my bad foot. I avoided the Santa Barbara merge crush by taking Rt. 166 east. Midway through a remote stretch, I had no choice but to release the gallon of tea I drank on the side of the road near an avocado tree. Unfortunately, my reduced state of mobility permitted me to undershoot my trajectory and piss on myself. My wet, lame ass pulled my beach towel out of the trunk to sit on the rest of the way home, while I downed muscle relaxants like they were Skittles.

But this Trouble Comes in Three’s story isn’t over. Since my GYN probably wouldn’t know what to do with me, I diligently searched my health insurance directory for a doctor or neurologist who would see me. As you would expect, nobody had immediate appointments. This sent me directly to the ER for care.

Overall, it was a good experience with the minor exception of the geezer next to me who yacked when they tried to shove a feeding tube down his nose. I had a middle-aged, white doctor who performed some physical tests and told me I wasn’t going to die.

“My back went out last week,” he said. “You just need to need to rest, reduce mobility, and see how it is in a week.”

“What about sex?” I had to ask.

“You won’t be doing that for a long time,” he responded laughing.

Fabulous. The doctor revoked my sexual freedom rights. That’s OK, he made it all better with a prescription for Vicodin.

Better living through chemistry. Take that Tom Cruise.

It was a day of firsts for me. It started with a shot of wheat grass juice. It smelled like grass and tasted like freshly mowed greens should – good for you gross. I went hard core and passed on the orange slice chaser. That had to be for pussies. I survived just like I did when mom made me eat liver. Now I’m getting my vitamins a new way. After work, I attended my first yoga class in California. I quickly came to the conclusion that I wasn’t in Brooklyn anymore.

There were men in my yoga class and I think most of them were straight. Real men didn’t go to the yoga studio in my old Windsor Terrace neighborhood. They went to Farrell’s around the corner which was a bar that boasted the freshest Budweiser in the city. This 5:30 p.m. class was about 50 percent men. I was dying. I laid my mat down in the back of the room. Nobody was going to see my fat wide ass. I was going to do the viewing in this class.

I started peeking during downward dog. Wow, nice thighs. I see biceps and a let’s-cast-that-in-marble perfect ass. I had to refocus my breathing. A half-hour later, I did my endurance viewing. Who was going for water and towels? Who was cocky and showing off?

When we got to the floor stretches and final breathing exercises, I returned to center – myself. Then I became very aware of my surroundings. I heard planes flying overhead. I heard buses going by. These were the sounds of my Windsor Terrace yoga studio. My breathing transported me back to Brooklyn.

A few OMMMMMHS later I rolled up and grabbed my mat. I was craving a New York slice and a Brooklyn Lager pint.

I wonder what the guys do after class. Probably wheat grass.