Pearls of Wisdom and Foolish Mutterings

I'm very bendy, you know.

I tried writing a blog entry last night, but when I read back over it, it sounded like this:

blahblahblahblahblahblah, WHINE, WHINE, SNIFFLE, SNIFFLE, blahblahblahblah, BOO HOO, WAAAAAHHHHH, WHINE WHINE WHINE, blahblahblahblah.

I deleted it and tried again - three times. But every time it sounded the same. So I told myself to shut the hell up and go to bed. I did and it was perfect timing. I flipped on the television to catch a dose of mindless drivel (yeah, like I need more of that - I think my mindless drivel quota is maxed out already) and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a rejuvenated and very funny Robin Williams, fresh from heart surgery, relating his adventure to fellow heart surgery survivor, David Letterman.

Now, I usually avoid David Letterman like the plague. I think he is full of himself, rude and generally not funny. But, for Robin Williams, I made an exception. It was a good choice. Robin Williams was hysterically funny (he made me laugh out loud several times) and he is so manic that dry, sarcastic Letterman could hardly get a word in edgewise. I enjoyed that as much as I enjoyed Robin's patter.

It was just what the doctor ordered and I went to sleep with a smile on my face. This morning, the good-mood fairy seems to have paid me a visit, so I figured I should take advantage of that and dash out a blog that is not dirge-like (for a change.)

To top off my good mood, I treated myself to a good hearty dose of the liquid energy my husband keeps in the fridge . It's a super B complex in liquid form and I swear the stuff is a miracle in a bottle. I cooked breakfast for my son (few of you who are reading this will recognize that for the certified miracle it is; I despise cooking and only do it under extreme duress.) While my son was sitting at the table, still in a state of shock, eating the breakfast that I, his mother cooked (who was that woman and what have you done with my mother,) I went on to further mystify myself by grabbing a dust rag and attacking the many dust-laden surfaces in my house.

I had a slight setback when I got to the entertainment center. My vigorous cleaning frenzy knocked the middle glass shelf off its supports and I had to put my dust rag down momentarily to wrestle the brackets, the shelf and the two pieces of electronic wizardry back into place. That took a good fifteen minutes, and was sufficiently repetitive (the shelf fought me and fell back down several times) and required enough physical exertion that I'm counting it as exercise for the day. Unfortunately, I think I used my entire quota of profanity for the day while arm-wrestling with the shelf. Let's just hope this good mood sticks around.

On a different note, I was having breakfast (which I DID NOT cook) with a good friend the other day and I was kvetching about my lower back pain that I can't seem to get rid of. She told me about a Wellness Clinic that she goes to for therapeutic massages and chiropractic adjustments. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I thought, I have a kid in college, I can't afford to pay to feel good. Ah, but then the good news came. Your medical insurance will pay for it, she glibly said.

"Check please!" I was out of there in a flash, headed to the Wellness Clinic. And yes indeed, my health insurance will pay for it. I almost jumped over the counter to grab the receptionist up in a big bear hug when she told me that. I had my first deep tissue massage the next day and was back a week later for another one. That time, I met with the doctor before my massage, so he could take my history, check my range of motion and speak with me about a treatment plan.

So I did the whole routine of range-of-motion movements; you know, bend over and touch your toes, bend to the side, now the other one, bend back as far as you can, same thing with neck - front, side, side, back. You have good range of motion, he tells me. Yeah, yeah, I'm here for the massage, can we get on with this. So then he has me lay face up on the table (no, not a regular table; an adjustment table, try to follow along) and he takes my foot and says, I'm going to raise your leg straight up. Tell me when it becomes uncomfortable. Raising, raising, raising...still okay? he asks. I nod my head. Raising, raising, raising...to a ninety degree angle. Okay, I say, I can feel that pulling

He stops, does the same thing with the other leg, 90 degrees again. He lowers my leg to the table and as he is doing so, he says to me in a perfectly serious voice, "You used to be a dancer, didn't you?" I laugh out loud, then look at him and see that he isn't joking. I laugh out loud again. "A dancer? Me? No, I was never a dancer."

He can hardly believe it, so he asks again. "Nope, not a dancer." Then he tells me that I am very flexible and he never sees that degree of flexibility except in dancers. All I could think about was the Friends episode where Phoebe and Chandler decide they should date and Phoebe tells Chandler, "I'm very bendy, you know." I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying it. But, now, armed with the knowledge that I am very bendy, I intend to wear that like a badge. Suddenly, I don't feel quite so old and decrepit. Especially since I've had two deep tissue massages and that doctor cracked my neck and back like a walnut and I can actually walk around pain-free. Ahhhh! Life is good. And I am bendy.