Just Call Me “Desperado”

“The longer you’re single, the more your eyes open to hidden opportunities.”

Do you like that?

Of course you do, because that is my OFFICIAL ”positive spin” on desperation.

And me, I like the positive approach.  I mean fine, maybe I haven’t cracked the code to love, but if I spend a lotta time with a lotta different men, something will eventually click…right?

Which brings me to another favourite line:

“Where there’s a wang, there’s a way.”

I tried to remember that recently, when I messed up my back and found myself searching for a sexy and delicious chiropractor-man…

***

PREFACE: One thing you should know is that I am a girly-girl.  I mean no I don’t “giggle”, but I’m very supportive of eye shadow, pretty nails, and weak forearms.

Unfortunately for me, my passion for “girlism” is often vagina-blocked by my even GIRLIER sister.  Picture someone thinner, weaker, and generally more useless. 

(Like seriously, in a dog-eat-dog world, she would be Darwin’s bitch).

My sister ALWAYS played the ”weak” card growing up, and now that we’re roommates, it’s set in stone:

-I, Romi, am the household “butch”

(insert manly grunt)

So now that you know I’m halfway to “manhood” (yikes), allow me to jump into the story…

…I recently hurt my back from shoveling too much snow (my number-one “butch duty”).

The pain was beyond what any muscle relaxer (and alcohol) could do, so I thought it was time for some chiropractor-intervention.

I’d never even been to a ”chiro”  before, so I searched the phone book looking for someone “legit”. 

First and foremost I wanted a man, because he might end up being a future husband (well you never know…).

As I scanned through the pages,  I found that there were plenty of men who were graced with the “healing hands”…serious dating potential.

I mean of course, it hadn’t been my plan to hurt myself and fall into the arms of a “healer”, but with the opportunity there, why not?

My first order of business was to choose the right “chiro man”.  Since none of them had pictures in their ads, I went for the fail-safe:  the man who’s last name I wanted most:

-Mr. Beckham (wow, what are the odds?…)

…As I drove to his office the following day, I noticed that his”chiro-joint” was located in a strip mall, between a Blockbuster Video and a Liquor Store (in a “drive-by shooting” part of town). 

Hmm…I guess you could call it “quaint”.

Once I parked my car and stepped outside, a gust of wintry air whipped at my sensitive face, immediately drying it up.  I suddenly remembered I was two nights overdue for a hair-wash.  So…I calmly fingered my scalp, located a pocket of grease, scooped it up, and rubbed it into my cheeks.  In mere seconds my face was silky smooth, proving once again that hair-grease is on par with Crisco Shortening, when it comes to keeping things moist.

So with hair-grease benefits confirmed, I entered Mr. Beckham’s office, and found myself….unimpressed.

First, the magazine assortment SUCKED, and second, I spotted ripped upholstery on THREE of the chairs.

I also found that the receptionist was noticeably absent, and there were no other patients in the office…

(Was I even in the right place?)

Just when I started to think that this was one of those “after-school specials” (like the one where my Drama teacher keeps me after class and tells me I have “potential” (whilst circling his hand on my lower back)), in walked Mr. Beckham.

Mr. Beckam was old….and substantially overweight…and balding…and mildly sweaty.

Suddenly feeling sick at the thought of his meaty paws all over my back, I had a brief moment of clarity:

-“This could be your ONE shot at happiness Romi; true love happens in the strangest of ways”

“Brain-Romi” was right! All I had to do was believe…

So I entered the room, took off my shirt, and waited to be romanced.

…

So this is the part where I tell you what really happened.

(ahem)

Things started off well enough (what with his strong and therapeutic touch), but then something weird came to pass.

First he told me to sit up straight, so he could take out all the “stress” from my shoulder blades.

I was fine with a new approach, but what I didn’t realize, is that this “therapy” would consist of Mr. Beckham raising his leg up high, resting it on a nearby chair, and basically rubbing his balls against the back of my head, as he beat the living be-jeezus out of my shoulders.

(Was this normal?)

I mean sure, it’s better to be hit with his ”man-sacs” in the back of my head vs. in my face, but still…it wasn’t exactly romantic.

And I know, I know, it was ME who said ”where there’s a wang, there’s a way“, but what I realized that night is that I need to feel special too, and there’s nothing too special about free admission to “ball town”, not when you’ve only just met the guy.

So I decided it was time to bail on this “opportunity”.

In other words, I put on my shirt, went to the desk, and paid him for his services (though what I actually paid for is not something I wanna dwell on).

Before I escaped the office, he suggested some “follow-up therapy”, 6 sessions to be exact.  I agreed, and promised I would call him to schedule future sessions with his ”man-sacs”.

That was a lie, and I never saw his face (or felt his balls) again.

***

So…did I learn anything from this experience?

Yes, two things:

1. Even desperation has its limits.

2. I wish to date a sensitive acupuncturist (I’ll let you know how that goes…)

PS: Joan, this is why I won’t date a chiropractor, but thanks for the suggestion