Getting Older…

…sucks sometimes.

Actually–it sucks all the time, right?

Now I’m not talking about your everyday normal shit like wrinkles or saggy skin, although those two particular things make me want to destroy every reflective surface on earth. We already know those things are going to atrophy as we age. They’re predictable and inevitable.

What I’m talking about is when your chassie starts altering itself…


Here’s my latest problem:

My damn hip tends to crack a lot as does my back, especially during sex. So, after much deliberation, I decided to bite the bullet and head off to see the chiropractor.

Now, I’m one of those people who hates to waste time, so I usually try to book the first appointment of the day. Easy in, easy out!

At 8:45 a.m. I pull into the parking lot. At 8:52 a.m. I walk in the door, sign in, then take the clipboard with the forms I’m asked to fill out. By 8:56 a.m. I return the clipboard to the lovely receptionist. She flips the page checking my cognitive prowess, then asks me to follow her. She leads me into an exam room, then tells me the ‘doctor’ will be in shortly. So far so good.

I sit down as directed and wait.

Then I wait, and wait, and wait some more.

This is BULLSHIT because, not only is the doctor late, I’m stuck in this crummy, dreary 5 X 5 room with nothing more to read than National Geographic’s from the 1970’s.

Rule #1: All medical offices should be required by the law of etiquette to provide current reading material…or be on fucking time!

Thirty minutes later he walks in with my chart in his hands.

“Good morning Mrs. Brown,” he says.

Well, YE-FUCKIN’-HAW, I think to myself.

My time is apparently not as important as his time.

We’ll see about that!

“Mrs. Brown?” he says again.

I decide to ignore him and continue reading about why Orangutans asses are  so red because we should all know the answer to this age-old question.

He clears his throat several times trying to get my attention.

“I should be done here in about 27 minutes.” I say checking my watch. “Why don’t you just have a seat doc. I’ll be right with you.”

“I’m sorry I’m so late. I had an emergency,” he says.

Yeah. I can see the emergency because he forgot to wipe the fucking cream cheese off the side of his face…asshole!

I finally acquiesce and put the magazine down.

“So. What is it you’re doing when your hip and back crack?” he asks.

I unbutton my pants and lower my zipper a few inches…

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

“Hey…you asked me what I was doing when my hip cracked, right? Just give me a second,” I say defending my actions.

“Wait just a damned a minute, let me get a nurse in here,” he says, his face turning a gentle shade of red. He slams his hand onto the button next to the door. Without missing a beat, he slides along the wall until he reaches the box of latex gloves, grabs a couple, retreats back to his spot by the door, then quickly dons said gloves.

I do not share with him that I’m only unbuttoning my pants because I’ve got one of those rip roaring errant gas bubble’s jetting around in my gut. You know the kind. It the one that settles right at the waistband of your pants and you need to relieve the pressure by any means possible or else that suckers gonna blow right then and there. It’s probably because I got up too early, drank far too much coffee that morning, and the shit, shower, and shave was not a fate-accomplis.

Regardless…I wait for his partner in crime.

I have to say though, I’m a little creeped out that he thinks I’d go there’ with him!


If I was going for that, I’d have chosen a much younger and better looking doctor. Perhaps even one that was more gynecologically adept.  Maybe even someone who had a little Chippendales experience under his belt.

This guy…NOT SO MUCH!


A few minutes later…enter Nurse Ratchet.


This nurse is like a wall sized condom.  Talk about your protective barrier! Sheeesh! This gal’s ankles have to be at least a size 22, and by the size of her bicep’s, it’s pretty apparent that she’s a definite gym rat.

She looks at me then back at the doctor.

“Where were we Mrs. Brown?” he says as though the formality of calling me ‘Mrs. Brown’ somehow protects him now that Nurse Ratchet’s standing between the two of us.

He’s still standing completely across the room though and he doesn’t look like he’s going to come any closer.

I’m thinking to myself this guys a real chicken shit. He’s a “doctor” for God’s sake. He must see all kinds of crazy stuff.

“So, when I twist like this…” I say rotating my hip. This of course makes my zipper undo a little more.

There’s no response. Nothing. Nada. Not even an ahem!

“Didn’t you hear that?” I ask.

“Hear what?” he says.

“My hip,” I say.

What?  This guy’s so fucking afraid I’m going to drop my pants or something that he’s completely forgotten why I’m here.

“Oh…No I didn’t hear it,” he says looking down at the floor.

“Well, maybe you should come a little closer, maybe put your hand right here so you can feel my crack.” I say.

“Um,” dribbles from his mouth as his face changes to a brighter shade of red as the words ‘feel my crack’ sinks in.

“DOCTOR, hellooooo…” I say, hoping to rein him back down from wherever his mind has drifted.

I glance at his groin just to make certain his pleasure center is still officially shut down.

“Oh! Yes, of course,” he says.

But he still doesn’t move.

Finally, Nurse Ratchet steps up to the plate for him and shuffles towards me. She pulls my pants down a little then puts her hand near my groin.


This woman should have ‘Ice Queen’ written on her name tag instead of…What? This does not look like a Cindy.

Now, I know there’s no rules about this, but there should be.

RULE #2: Medical practitioners should be required to warm up their hands or anything else that’s going to come in contact with your body!

“Okay, do it again, NOW,” she says. “I’ll feel your crack for him.”

I feel a little uncomfortable with the location of her hand, especially after noticing that she’s not wear a wedding band. And it’s no consellation when I spot the bad-ass tattoo peeking out of her short sleeved uniform.

“Actually, if you put your hand on my back, you’ll probably feel it better,” I manage to spit out as I continue to adjust to the temperature of her paw.

“Are you telling me how to do my job, ma’am?”


She doesn’t know me well enough yet to pull the ‘maam’ card.

I bite my tongue a little because I’m trying desperately to force the words in my head to stay there until she removes her hand.

Instead, I twist my body a little forcing the cracking of my bones to be noticeable.

“Did you feel it?” I ask hopeful that she will now remove the thawed paw.

“No,” she says.

She tells me to turn around so she can check me out from the back. I oblige.

She pulls my pants down a little and pushed my shirt up out of the way.

“Mmm!” she mumbles.

“I know,” I say. It’s obvious she thinks we’re soul sister now that she’s spotted my tattoo, my tramp stamp.

“Interesting choice,” she says as she runs her fingers down my spine towards ground zero. Interestingly enough though, her touch has become just slightly softer, as though she feels closer to me.

“Is that Canadian bacon?” she asks with a certain amount of perplexity in her voice.

“Indeed it is! I had it done many years ago after several shots of tequila. It was funny at the time but now…well, now it’s become permanent back fat, a tribute to my heritage,” I tell her. “My muffin top loves the company though.”

“Doctor, you should come and look,” she says, which causes my sphincter muscle to clamp down involuntarily.

“Why do you want him to see that?” I plead.

“I want him to see your back ma’am, not your unfortunate tattoo,” she says with a slight tone of indignation in her voice.


I know what she’s up to. This whole experience is quickly going to hell in a basket. I begin to rethink my position, that maybe I should just zip up and skidaddle, when I hear her say, ‘right there doc’!