Sunday, January 15, 2012

08 January 2012


As a preamble to the visits with the chiropractor, I engaged a freshly graduated and licensed massage and body therapist. I knew him personally in only the vaguest sense, but we're friends on Facebook, and that left me with a name, face, and contact.

Earlier, I'd engaged a few acupressure massage therapists, probably not licensed, but the lack of anything resembling skill with English lends them an air of authenticity. On my feet, I find them brutally worthwhile. On my back, I need a day of recovery. It's good, but there are limits to what I'm willing to put up with.

Enter my Facebook bud and Swedish massage in my apartment. Yes, in my apartment. For just a little more money, he comes over with his table, dissembles me, takes a tenderizer to the pieces, and then puts me back together. The left over parts are sent to the Wake County Landfill. Or hazardous waste containment. I forget which.

All this manipulation might seem time consuming and expensive to some. Those people should checkout the fees on back and neck surgery. Spinal fusion ain’t cheap. It's also not something I want to engage anytime soon.

Besides, this fellow comes to my highrise trailer house and works on me in my living room. This is a very good thing, and he gets a card for being willing to make house calls.

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