The Tickling

Sometimes I think I am so darn clever. When I say that, I mean that when I realize I have an idea that others are not hip to, I get that smug look on my face and that little glow of evil self-righteousness in my heart. On a few occasions I feel justified and adopt the practices of my ideas. Other times, when I am wrong, the fall from my high horse seems too far.

This is a story of a smug moment turned costly mistake.

As anyone can attest, I care not for my personal appearance. I wear clothes that make me look twenty years older and twenty pounds fatter. I don’t like buying expensive clothes and sporting a brand’s label for free. When it comes to clothes, I’m cheap. Shoes are not exempt from this philosophy either.

Why pay for an expensive pair of shoes at Macy’s or Nordstrom when I could get three pair for the same price at a bargain outlet or discount sporting goods store? Only a sucker would fork out that much cash for a brand name.

Oddly enough, this was one of those instances when I learned an expensive lesson about quality.

The more expensive shoe companies were charging more for their shoes because they included things like arch support, cushioning, safety testing, and other features that promoted comfort and foot mechanics.

The less expensive shoes were all about the outer appearance. They were shoes that a human foot could be placed inside and look like they offered some kind of rudimentary protection from the elements. They definitely looked like shoes. However, it would be like purchasing a cheap car, but instead of interior features like seats and safety belts, there would just be a couple upside-down buckets with a length of rope to lash yourself to the interior frame. But look at those racing stripes!

For years I would buy these junky shoes and put mile after mile on them while silently abusing the delicate muscle and tissue makeup of my feet.

I am not sure when it happened, but I know over a short period of time that it became difficult to walk on my feet after short periods of having my feet in a resting position. It got so that waking up and taking the first few steps out of bed sent shooting pains through my feet. It felt as if all the muscles in my heel and arch had grown together wrong and needed to be ripped apart each time.

Sometimes one foot would feel worse than the other and sometimes they would both hurt about the same. But it was becoming the status quo, as was my weird limping around the house during my foot adjusting time.

“Those cheap shoes you buy are ruining your feet,” my wife would say to me, “see a doctor and stop wearing cheap shoes.” Sometimes it is difficult for me to cut through the thick veils of her hints. Perhaps if she was more direct, I may have figured it out sooner.

I asked around my job to see if anyone knew a foot specialist but nobody did. A coworker did tell me about a friend that had a similar issue and that his chiropractor might be able to help me.

I had never been to a chiropractor before and had always been leery of the practice. The whole industry seems like it straddles the line between science and sorcery. Like, it’s covered on my medical insurance but the “doctor” went to a community college. I don’t know enough about it to be critical or positive, I can only tell you that I knew insurance companies paid them, so it had to have some kind of research to back it up.

My feet hurt and I didn’t want some podiatrist telling me I would need three surgeries per foot to “attempt” to correct my foot pain. Spending $25 on an office visit copayment sounded better than spending two years in post surgery ski-boots, so I was off to give pseudo-science a try.

The chiropractor’s office was very nice. It had the feel of a specialist’s or high-end dentist’s waiting room. There was a fish tank, a sassy receptionist that knew how to fling a clipboard and last month’s general interest magazines. It also had medical drawings of spinal columns and nerve charts on the wall along with a full sized spine model with removable vertebrae on a table.

All of this made me breathe easily, the environment was engineered to show me that this is a little more medically sound than I had originally judged. But then I thought, my son has a model helicopter but I wouldn’t pay him a couple hundred bucks to fly us around Maui. This is exactly the kind of setup I would do if I were going to start a bone cracking business.

The chiropractor’s patient rooms were nicer than I expected. It looked like every psychiatrist’s office that you have ever seen on TV. Leather books, a painting, nice chairs and a strange leather table with some shaped, foam cushions on it. Soft, pleasant music played out of a small bookshelf radio unit.

The chiropractor entered confidently and told me his name. For the purposes of this writing, we will call him Dr. Ford. He was tall and fit, with a very positive demeanor. He was very focused when I told him why I was there and specifically what could be done. I appreciated the time he took to ask me questions. He was a nice guy and I liked him.

He explained to me that what he thought might be the issue. It appeared that I wasn’t getting the arch support that my feet needed and my muscle tissue was compensating by blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah. He told me that I needed better arch supports in my shoes. Then he looked at my shoes. He said I needed to buy better shoes.

However, the experience didn’t stop there. He told me he had something he could do for my feet and that over time it would “help” to correct my painful issue, but it would take several visits. I was prepared for this and if there was just a fraction of relief he could give me, I would come back and let him do it again.

“But first,” Dr. Ford said, “Let’s have you stand up and get you adjusted. Take a deep breathe and let all the air out.”

I didn’t stop and think, I just stood up. As I took the deep breathe I could see him face off against me and kind of crouch slightly. I was halfway through my breathing out when he threw his arms out and around my body, pinning my arms to the side of me and sending a wave of panic through my core. This chiropractor had attacked me.

I started to struggle as he lifted me off the ground, pushing my remaining oxygen out of my mouth and dramatically increasing my sensation of helplessness. My machismo was damaged. I couldn’t believe how fast this weird fight had started and how quickly I was rendered defenseless. In the second-and-a-half after Dr.Ford had picked me up off the ground suddenly, I had played out the rest of the fight.

“Think dammit! Use your surroundings!” I thought frantically to myself. I felt pops in my back. “If I could just get my hands on that bookshelf radio, I could brain this crazy bastard. Can I get at his groin? That’s not fair fighting man, don’t kick a guy in the groin. WHAT’S FAIR? THIS GUY JUMPED YOU OUT OF NOWHERE IN HIS PLACE OF BUSINESS! THIS IS A FIGHT TO THE DEATH!”

“Take it easy,” Dr. Ford said sensing my discomfort, “it’s almost over.”

Too out of breath to say anything, my brain screamed “HE IS TRYING TO KILL ME! HE JUST SAID I’M ALMOST DEAD!”

“Just a little bit more,” Dr. Ford grunted as he reapplied his mammoth bear grip around my body with a slight bounce. I felt one big pop in my mid spine, and felt relief. “There.”

He put me down on my feet and I literally believed my legs wouldn’t hold me due to having this man breaking my back and severing my lower nervous system from my upper. But I stood firm and had some release of pain I forgot I had in my back.

“I, I wasn’t expecting that,” I stammered, “I’ve never had that really done before. I thought we were just doing foot stuff.” I was stupefied. I don’t care for people touching me but hugging the air out of me with no warning left me feeling violated.

“Oh!” Dr. Ford said with genuine alarm and sympathy on his face, “I hope I didn’t freak you out. That’s the first of a few general adjustments I would like to do before we work on the feet.”

Freaked out. Yep, definitely freaked out.

He had me do a few other positions on the table and with a cushion. It all seemed like a series of very professional, yet inappropriate hugs. I didn’t care for the experience but my body did feel much better. My psyche was a little traumatized but nothing like what was about to happen.

Dr. Ford told me to lay face down on the table with my face through a padded circle at the end. He had me remove my shoes and leave my socks on while he ducked into a different room down the hall.

He returned with a flat metal tool with rounded smooth, curved edges. The outer edge curved like a small banana and was of a shiny chrome. He held it under the table briefly for me to look at it.

Dr. Ford explained that he was going to use the tool to scrape the internal scar tissue free so my foot could heal itself properly with better arch support insoles that I was to buy immediately. As he explained, he secured my right foot bent at the knee up in the air like he was shoeing a horse.

I don’t think I giggled on his first pass over the bottom of my foot, but I think I jerked it hard at the sensation.

Dr. Ford kind of laughed. “Weren’t expecting that, were you.” He took a firmer grip.

I honestly tried to keep it professional as Dr. Ford dragged the tool over my throbbing heal. It was painful and extremely ticklish at the same time. I bit my lip and dug my freaky little carnival hands into the padded table as he worked. My eyes filled with tears as I stifled the uncontrollable urge to laugh.

Well, uncontrollable means just that, I couldn’t control it. I barked out a couple big belly laughs that deteriorated into spastic giggling topped with loud, LOUD thunderous chuckles.

Dr. Ford worked away for a minute, until he realized that not only could his entire practice hear me but possibly everyone being fitted for hearing aids two floors below us at the audiologist. “Are you going to be okay?” He asked, “Can I finish?” He was amused but confused at the same time.

I looked up and dried my tears, “yeah, it’s cool. I have my asthma inhaler.” I reached into my trouser pocket and retrieved my medicine for a quick puff. “Go for it.”

Dr. Ford laughed and shook his head. I put my face back down and he returned to torturing my foot in a way I hadn’t had done since my Uncle Dave used to tickle me when I was a kid.

I laughed and carried on like no adult man—none ever—should ever, ever carry on. I sounded like I was in absolute agony—kind of. I sounded like a hyena, gorilla and two parrots capable of mimicking human speech were locked in a small closet together.

Had I been a patient in a waiting room to see this professional, not only would I get up to leave, but I would search for a hidden camera TV crew and upon finding none, would phone the police.

I squealed and heaved huge gasps of air between fits of silly, goofy guffaws. It was a snowball of laughter and it grew to an unacceptable level.

For some reason, the chiropractor just powered through it.

I really tried not to laugh but the combination of the physical sensation along with the absurdity that a professional was doing it in his place of business was just too much to take.

Then he did the left foot.

I walked out of there feeling far more comfortable than any self-respecting man should after cackling madly for twenty minutes within earshot of three medical waiting rooms.

I’d like to say that I didn’t have to go back, but there were several weeks of this and it did indeed seem to help the healing process along. Each time I laughed the sounds of a sanitarium with a late shipment of medicine.

I paid a man, and I paid him very well, to tickle me, and that’s the Damm truth.