Shave.

I returned today with a mission. I was going to successfully shake his hand and walk away without being swayed to come back.

I failed.

He walked in sporting his comfortable smile and friendly gestures, as per usual. He seemed relaxed and at ease. He asked me where I'd been, as I have been putting off this appointment for a few weeks, knowing that I have about as much internal strength as a chicken when he's around. The way he speaks is gruelingly tempting. It isn't only his words that soothe my mind, but the actual way he asserts his voice -- his inflection and tone, the patience and kindness in his expression. It's like this incredible gift he doesn't even realize he possess.

As he stood in front of me, I mumbled under my breath that I would not be returning after this session. His smile turned to a look of annoyance, although I knew he wasn't upset, just concerned. He grabbed my hand and instructed me to get on the table.

"We'll figure it out. We can figure it out, don't worry."

The same response I've been given relentlessly for the past three months. So I give in. I succumb to the powers that are Dr. Hottie, and I take a deep breath, and let it out, as I am instructed.

I feel him place his hands on my back, and as he runs them up and down my spine, around the back of my body, over my neck, my frustrations ease away from me. For those minutes, everything in my little universe is alright.

He leans his legs against my side as he speaks to me, calms me. He stops to make a joke about my shirt being slippery. I laughed a little, and although I was listening to every word he said, all I could think about was how desperately I needed someone like him in my life. How desperately everyone needs someone like him in their lives.

My stress began to trickle away, and for a mere ten minutes, my thoughts were on him, his hands, his voice, his character. As he held my head in his hands, and brushed his thumbs over my cheeks repeatedly, I started to realize how unhealthy this healthy treatment really might be for me.

And then I stopped caring.

Tell me again how I look nice with a suntan. Tell me how you think I'm wise beyond my years, how I'm one of the most down-to-earth people you've ever met. Tell me how you think I'm funny, and how you'll kick the other doctor's ass if he hurts me again when you're on vacation. Tell me about your little dog and how it loves people, but not other dogs. Tell me how the people from my former job seem very lifeless compared to me, and how I didn't belong there anyway. Tell me how I'm going to be so successful, because you can "just feel it." Tell me about how you don't like your in-laws, and how this wedding is just getting to be really expensive. Show me again how trapped you feel in your engagement. In your ideal life.

I opened my eyes and looked up at him, and he looked down at me with a smile. He cracked a joke about how I should just think about retirement at my age. Then with a sudden jerk, my neck cracked left, then right, and it was over.

He holds my hands as he pulls me up as he always does. He lets his voice linger as he reassures me that something can be worked out.

We said our goodbyes, and I ventured towards the exit to reality-- the concrete jungle of lights and sirens that we New Yorkers call Midtown. He disappeared to the back, bounding towards his next victim.

I left the office feeling renewed and rejuvenated, as I always do. The rush he provides might not be because of his chiropractic expertise, but if something makes you feel good, why make it stop?


xxM