Tag Archives: chiropractors

Career Day

Tightrope walking? That doesn’t sound so hard. Oh, wow, look at me everybody, I’m walking over a wire and I’m holding a big stick. Please. I don’t think it’s that hard to walk in a straight line. I do stuff like that all the time. I always walk on the curb, you know, if I’m on a really big sidewalk. It’s basically the same idea. I already said this but, it’s just walking in a straight line. I don’t see why tightrope walkers get to be famous and I don’t. Well, I guess tightrope walkers don’t really get to be all that famous, not super famous. There’s that one documentary that got popular a few years ago, the one about that guy who tightrope walked over the Twin Towers in the 1970s. But even him, I don’t even remember his name. He was French. He had a French name. Something like, Frederique or Dominique, or Filipique. I don’t know. I don’t get French. But yeah, I can’t remember anything about that guy at all, and I actually watched the movie, and I liked it, I thought it was inspirational, something that was going to stick with me. But I guess it didn’t. Being French, that doesn’t sound so hard either. You just have to smoke a lot of cigarettes and not tip your waiter anything at all.

Archeology? Come on. That doesn’t sound very hard at all. I can’t believe that’s even a real job. I could be an archeologist. I could be a pro archeologist. Step one. Find some field somewhere in the middle of nowhere, preferably in a foreign country (except France – see above.) Step two. Pitch a tent, buy a khaki vest, one with a lot of pockets, and a big floppy khaki hat. Get some khaki pants while you’re at it. Oh and hiking boots. Something tough, something rugged. Something you can only buy at hiking stores. Something khaki. Step three. Start digging. That’s basically it. You dig. When you don’t feel like digging anymore, or when you only feel like digging some of the time, while still getting all of the credit that goes with being a pro archeologist, go to some university, solicit a bunch of interns, make them do all of the digging, and while you’re at it, have them make you a tall glass of freshly squeezed lemonade, lots of ice, in a big glass pitcher, extra credit for those little umbrellas.

When they’re not digging for you, complain about how they don’t spend enough time digging, how if you want to go pro, you have to keep digging, that this is a digging man’s job. Or woman’s job. Pro archeology is one of the few professions that totally destroys the gender gap. When they are digging, get in their faces, complain about their lack of finesse, make them dig slower, give them comically small shovels, even tinier brushes. Make them stop digging for an entire day and switch entirely to brushing. When they complain that they aren’t moving any of the dirt with the brushes, throw your hands in the air and proclaim that maybe they don’t have what it takes for this profession, for this field.

Step four. When, after years of digging, after countless hours spent in that hole you’ve dug up, with no dinosaur bones, not even one arrow head to point to, when the university starts inquiring as to what exactly you’re doing out there, out in the field, when they threaten to start withholding interns unless you can show some results, a paper maybe, some sort of academic something, go to their offices and throw your hands in the air, the same way you did with the interns. Tell them archeology is a slow business. That you need patience. That you need more interns, with more floppy hats, with even more khaki.

Chiropractors? Jesus. Let me tell you a story about a little boy who dreamed about being a masseuse. All he wanted to do was to grow up to give massages for a living, to run his hands across the backs and necks and legs and arms of everybody in the world, easing their physical tension, soothing their aches and pains, making the world a better place, one muscle knot at a time. But he was terrible. Everybody that he touched winced in pain. He just couldn’t get it right. And just as he was about to give up completely, to look in the mirror and say, enough, it’s time for a new dream, he was approached by a chiropractor. And the chiropractor said, “Wait! You! The boy who wants to be a masseuse, the boy who hurts and scars everybody he touches. You don’t have to give up your dream. You just have to call yourself a chiropractor. You get to do all of the stuff you already do, and people will pay you. Plus, you get to call yourself a doctor without having to sit through even one hour of medical school!”

What am I doing wrong? There’s a whole world out there. A whole world of bullshit professions that I could probably master in my sleep. Anesthesiologist. Interior decorator. Comptroller. Certified public accountant. I just have do it. I just have to get out there and start walking on straight lines and smoking cigarettes or digging big holes and wearing khaki or cracking people’s backs and taking x-rays. I’ve got to spend less time writing about how easy all of this stuff is and more time actually doing it. But I’d probably get bored. Because none of this stuff sounds very hard at all. And when would I get to play XBOX? Or Wii? Or enjoy a glass of wine? Or a bottle of wine? Or a bottle of bourbon? There has to be some bullshit job that incorporates all of this nonsense into one livable profession. I’ve got to find it. I’ve got to do it.

Just another one of those days where I can’t think of anything interesting to say

I bought this book of writing exercises. Whenever I get to the point where I can’t think of anything to write about, like past the point where I start writing stuff about not having anything to write about, you know, after I’ve already written multiple pieces about not being able to think of something, anything, I’ll whip out this book and do a writing exercise. So I already did one, because I was struggling for something, anything to write about. And I felt, OK, I did it, I got the juices flowing, let’s get to work here. And nothing. I’m at the end of this paragraph and nothing. Jesus.

I really wish I knew how to turn it on, because sometimes it’s just on. I don’t even know how it happens. I’ll just sit down and it’s as if somebody else is writing through me. But then there are days like this where I’ve literally just been staring at the screen, hoping for something to talk about, anything, come on, please. In the book of writing exercises that I bought, the whole idea is to just keep going, even when you don’t have anything, and through constant movement of the fingers or whatever it’ll eventually click. Something has to click.

My jaw has been clicking lately. It was like all of the sudden I couldn’t close my jaw anymore without really forcing it shut, and there would always be a lot of jaw clicking. So I went to the dentist and he assured me that I was grinding my teeth in my sleep. And I assured him that it’s not while I’m sleeping, but that I’m doing it while I’m awake. I just always do. I clench my jaw, tight, especially while I’m sitting at the computer, hoping that I’ll make use of my free time, really just desperate to get some of these blog posts done, because I’ve set up this routine, this daily thing, that I can’t miss one day, and so if I don’t keep up with the writing I’ll be in a bad spot. And yeah, my jaw right now is really tight.

My dentist equated all of that jaw clenching with a body builder who worked out too much. He claimed that my jaw muscles were overbuilt. He suggested Botox to paralyze the muscles. Don’t worry, he told me, it’ll only cost one thousand dollars. Gee, that’s it? “Thanks a lot doc, let me think about it for a while,” I told him. “OK, think about it,” he said, “but do you want me to schedule you in for an appointment just in case you decide to go for it?” I see what you’re doing there doc. Stroking my ego, comparing my jaw to a bodybuilder’s jaw, penciling me in for an appointment that I clearly didn’t express too much interest it.

I clench my jaw when I sit there not being able to come up with anything to write about. I also tap my legs violently. I think tap isn’t really a good word, because it’s not violent enough. It’s not stomping. Whatever, I guess tapping is OK. But it’s so fast, like the table moves. And it doesn’t really help me write. You know what it’s like, it’s this staring at the screen, trying to fish for an idea. And when nothing comes up, after a while the only thing my brain is thinking about is the lack of ideas, and it eventually turns into a physical sensation, a discomfort, and the best way to relieve it, some of it anyway, is to start tapping and clenching. And you know what else I do? I’ll shift positions in my chair over and over again until my back hurts.

If I can’t think of anything to write about, pretty soon the dentist is going to be the least of my concerns. My back’s just going to get worse, I’ll have to go see a chiropractor. He’ll be like, “Wow, you are so strong and well-built.” And I’ll be like, “Really? Go on …” And he’ll start in on the pitch, telling me how awesome I am, but to a fault, so that I’ll need to start coming in regularly for whatever it is chiropractors do.

I don’t know how chiropractors exist. Everything I’ve heard about them tells me to stay away. One time I was in the hospital waiting for somebody and I overheard the guy next to me telling the doctor about what his chiropractor told him and the doctor cut him off, “Listen. Chiropractors are not real doctors. Never go to a chiropractor!” And for some reason that really stuck in my head. Plus, I’ve never met a chiropractor. I’ve met doctors. I’m met veterinarians. I’ve met tons of professionals from a lot of different job sectors. But no chiropractors.

Anyway, I didn’t write about anything, but I got a whole blog post out of it. Somebody once told me something about quality vs. quantity, but I don’t think I was paying attention, because I don’t remember what they were trying to tell me about the two, what point they were trying to make.