In an attempt to check yet one more thing off of my bucket list, I went to see an Acupuncturist today. I’ve heard rumblings that acupuncture is a terrific way to find pain relief. And frankly, I’m all over that.
But the one thing that I didn’t take into full account, was that acupuncture involves, you know, needles. Very long needles. Very long sharp needles.
After my Acupuncturist got an earful of my medical history, and let me tell you, because I am tired of my own medical drama, I have considered making stuff up just to keep at least me interested, she commenced with the needle sticking.
As I lay prone on a table. In a darkened room. With incense burning. And gentle Chinese music playing on a portable CD player. And btw, my Acupuncturist is a young British gal. Not the small elderly Chinese woman that you might imagine.
When I saw the length of the first needle, I closed my eyes and went to my happy place. She stuck me with no fewer than 10 needles, spread out evenly between my upper arms all the way down to my feet. I was not as brave as you might have hoped, because I did audibly say “OW” a couple of times, and thought of some really bad words.
Then the pain subsided, and she left the room. And I had about 30 blissful minutes of peace and serenity. While I tried very hard to resist the urge to scratch my nose. Fearing that I would poke myself in the eye and be permanently blinded.
Adding to my medical woes.
When I was suitable cooked, she removed the needles. And she brought in what looked like a large, long, cigar. Which she lit. It is called a Moxa Roll, and it is used as an indirect heat treatment. She held it close enough to my knee, so that I could feel the heat. Which was good, since I couldn’t see a thing because of all the smoke.
She told me that she was going to send me home with my own Moxa Roll, and I was to give myself the heat treatment once a day. But she cautioned me to light it, and use it outside, or my house would stink. When she saw the look on my face, she assured me that it wasn’t illegal, and under no circumstances should I try to smoke it.
When we were finished with my treatment, I walked back into the doctor’s office next door to check out. All heads turned when I breezed through the door. Because I smelled a bong.
Not that I really know what a bong smells like, mind you. It’s just that…oh look, pretty pretty colors…
Where was I? Oh yes, checking out.
I was a nervous wreck on the way home, fearing that I would be pulled over by the cops. Paranoid, if you will. And generally the cops want you to roll your window down. Which if I did, I’m certain that as the leftover smoke billowed out of the open window, they would be suspicious that I was a middle aged housewife, sparking a doobie in her Toyota Prius.
Just let that scenario play out in your head.
When I arrived home, my family wasted no time letting me know that I reeked. “MOMMY! HAVE YOU BEEN SMOKING?”
I offered to go change my clothes, and Cailey, who has highly evolved olfactory senses, deadpanned, “Yeah,” in a tone that could have been synonymous with “DUH!”
And now my dilemma is, how do I perform this treatment out on my back porch without the neighbors, who already think I’m crazy, suspecting I’m also a pothead to boot?
But then again, I’m also toying with the idea of letting the chips fall where they may, and so what if the neighbors think that I’m indulging in a little medicinal marijuana. We’re due to be receiving a letter from the homeowners association reminding us to mow our lawn anyway.
Might as well save ’em a postage stamp.