BEING MANIPULATED

Obviously, it's nothing to do with the chair. Sitting on an Aeron is like
"putting your bottie in butter" - Authentic Sir Paul Holmes Saying

I have a bad back.

I'd like to think there are many unavoidable reasons for this; an unergonomic work space, an old mattress, the time I fell off the playground and landed on my arse when I was a kid...

Unfortunately, I have a sneaking suspicion the main reason for my bad back is my bad front. I'm fat, I'm lazy and I'm a bit of a weakling, all of which puts a lot of pressure on one's spine to lift the load.

Presumably, there was a time I didn't have a bad back, but I can't precisely remember when that would have been. Maybe around the time Mr. Sefton was trying to get me to sit up straight in 7th Form Statistics. If only I'd listened, perhaps I wouldn't be in the state I'm in now. Sadly, I never listened to Mr. Sefton about anything - especially anything to do with Statistics. In fact, it pains me to say (specifically around the T-12 area) I frequently did the exact opposite of what he wanted me to. I recall Mr. Sefton asking me to stop slouching and me sliding down even further in my chair, just to spite him. Imagine having me as a student in your class. Nightmare.

Could that be the real reason for my persistent pain? Karma? If I'd been a model student, instead of a model of disruption, would I now be springing out of bed each morning like a young lamb, rather than untangling myself excruciating link by link as the jumbled mess of frayed rope, knotted fishing line and rusty chains I have become?

Whatever the cause, unless I'm lying flat on my back on the floor, the ache's pretty much always there, varying in intensity from a dull throb all the way up to, "Oh my god, it burns! It burns! Mr. Sefton, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me! I'm begging you! Make it stop!" To be honest, even if I am lying flat on the floor, that'll only buy me about 10 minute's relief before everything seizes up and I won't be able to get up off the floor.

Still, what do you expect from a 70 year-old? Pity I'm not even 40 yet.

I have sought medical advice. A mate of mine put me on to a guy called, and I'm not making this up, Doctor Bill. Dr. Bill is a chiropractor, but more importantly, he's also a kinesiologist. This means he has the freaky ability to keep you from holding your arm up by tapping you on the head.

I realise that might sound like airy-fairy, magical, new-age mumbo-jumbo, but it doesn't change the fact Dr. Bill fixed me. In fact, it was Dr. Bill who figured out the whole falling-off-the-playground-when-I-was-a-kid thing. Initially I had to see him once a week, but he soon weaned me off to once a fortnight, once a month, a 6 month top-up then I never went back.

And it only cost me 8 million billion dollars. Cheap at half the price.

Of course, even miracle cures don't necessarily last forever. Whatever clever trick Dr. Bill worked on me has started to fade and I'm buying my Lotto tickets in Ponsonby to try and amass the funds required to go back and see him.

In the meantime, you can understand why I love a good massage. The Domestic Manager and the Monsters are well aware of this, making a massage voucher the ideal go-to Fathers Day gift. This year the voucher was for somewhere new, which is always a slightly nerve-wracking experience. While I'm definitely into having my inflamed back muscles mashed around for half an hour, I wouldn't say I'm the kind of person who wants to touched intimately by a stranger. With an accent.

I always experience some anxiety in the initial stages of a massage appointment. This is partly due to revealing personal details but mostly due to revealing my person generally. There's always a long and involved form to fill out on which you have to divulge your medical history, list medications and allergies and sometimes even draw little diagrams highlighting your problem areas. I'm not much of an artist, but since my problem areas extend from the top of my bald head right down to the arches of my feet, my diagram usually involves a rough oval around my entire body.

As for medications, I'm not really a hardened consumer of pharmaceuticals. My drug of choice is usually whatever generic paracetamol is on special at the supermarket. And the only things I'm allergic to are exercise and a healthy diet which, as I've already mentioned, is probably what got me into this bind in the first place.

On this occasion however, there was no form to be filled. On the one hand, I applauded this spurning of superfluous paperwork - I really, really hate filling out forms.

On the other hand, just what kind of fly-by-night, half-arsed, Mickey-Mouse outfit were these people running? My fundamental form-filling aversion won through though, and assuaged any concerns I may have been harbouring about following correct rules and regulations.

Then came the undressing part - or did it? I like being told what to do, not just by massage therapists, by anybody. But when it comes to getting naked in front of someone you don't know, it's best if there are some clear instructions issued early on. Unfortunately, like the stupid form, these instructions were not forthcoming.

I'd explained the location of the pain. The massage therapist had told me where to lie on the table. She hadn't told me what not to wear.

Uncomfortable pause.

"Shall I take off my shirt?" I asked. What a stupid question. Who ever heard of someone getting a massage with their shirt on? But I had to say something.

Maybe she'd been playing a very funny joke on me, because at this point she left the room, saying she'd give me a few minutes to get undressed.

Still not enough detail. Just HOW undressed did she want me? I desperately tried to recall how naked I'd been at other massages in the past... Shirt off, obviously... but pants? It's only a bad back. Still... lower back. Yes, she'd need access below the belt-line probably. Undies on though, surely. Socks off? Why wasn't there a form clearly outlining the requirements? I was really missing those forms now...

What if she came back in, saw me sockless, screamed and ran from the room to call the authorities to have this dirty, sock-stripping pervert arrested? If I hadn't been experiencing tension between the shoulder blades before this moment, there was definitely plenty for her to work on now.

I must have made the right call with the socks, because there was no screaming upon her return, just a few groans - and they were from me, an involuntary response to her unwinding my twisted muscular mess.

As massages go, this was a good one, although nowhere near long enough. They never are.

Oh... and in case you were wondering, I went with socks off. What can I say, I'm just the kind of guy who likes to lie on the edge. Groaning.

I've heard of being addicted to prescription medicine,
but supermarket medicine?