Baby Got Back Pain

At my weekly Co-Op trip on Wednesday, I was the sole person – other than the employees – under the age of seventy. It was all hatted-and-matching-scarved ladies and some older gentlemen and one couple who put me in mind of Lewis and Bethany, arguing with the butcher about the cut of roast pork these days. Fortunately I missed the advent of the senior’s bus, and was instead faced with several lovely old people: I had an in-depth conversation with an elderly man about the sweetness of Mandarin oranges at this time of year, and how this is an exceptional year for them. I chatted with an old lady about how Nothing Compares To Garden-Grown Tomatoes, But These Cherry Tomatoes Are Rather Tasty. I even flirted with an octogenarian who winked at me as I looked at a package of candy canes, asking if I had a sweet tooth because I looked like a sweet lady. Well, some of us are just not sweet enough, I responded, holding up the box of candy. This is what my life has come to, people. Flirting with eighty year old men who are on their way back to the Home.

Maybe I was feeling at one with the elderly because I was moving like one. I hurt my back this week, shovelling the endless drifting snow. Although I strongly believe that shovelling snow is a man’s job, let’s celebrate the patriarchy, here, honey, have a shovel, I find it hard to justify leaving the snow to my husband when he leaves work at 7:00 pm and then sits in traffic for an hour, while I am technically home all day. But I was busy baking cookies only gets you so far, people.

In any case, the other day I was attempting to chisel packed down snow and ice off the sidewalk when I hit a ridge in said sidewalk. I could practically feel my spine reverberate. I have been meaning to consult a chiropractor for a while (read: a few years), since I have felt like my hips are out of alignment, and the crazy back pain I was experiencing expedited this process.

Have you ever been to a chiropractor? I have not. I used to think the whole profession was based on a whole bunch of back cracking hoo-ha, but my husband has been going to one for years and it really has made a difference for him. Let the records show that I have been changed! So I made an appointment with a nearby office, and sat in the little room on a strange little bench, waiting and reading back issues of Chatelaine.

Now, I don’t know what the medical professionals in your life are like, but mine are a fairly stout and frumpy lot, scrub-wearing and jovial. They are decidedly unattractive and have that comfortable vibe that says that they are above such things. So I was a little surprised to see my chiropractor, who visually could only be described as a hipster. All that was missing was a scarf and an ironic moustache. But a good life lesson for us all is to not judge a book by its cover; as it turns out the hipster chiro immediately located my issue, which – apparently – may have developed during pregnancy. Pregnancy! That was a while ago.

Speaking of hipsters, every time the chiro mentioned my sacroiliac, I internally hummed Let Your Backbone Slide, which shows how hip I am.