Baby Jesus, I knee-d you!

Why DOES the Universe keep toying with me? Baby Jesus, why do you keep hovering around me? I'm used to the wife's family but it's getting to be a bit much, a bunch louder. Am I supposed to be going to church? Confession? Joel Osteen lectures? Salt Lake City? Israel? The Republican Convention?

Let me explain the meaning of my existential questioning by writing a letter to Jillian...

....because I am going to be sending my chiropractor bill to her.

Dear Jillian, Goddess of my New Butt, destroyer of my old knee,

I've been gimping around with a bum knee for the past month or so. I've muttered under my breath about it here and there, but saved most of my whining for when walking with MJagger. (Humblest apologies to MJagger for having to provide free therapy and for having to survive my "walk-whining." You friendship and ability to not slap me are indubitably appreciated.) Instead of doing something about the initial pain, I decided to ignore it. I wanted to keep my quest for physical specimen superiority in action. I didn't cut down on my walking, I didn't cut down on your videos, I didn't cut back on anything. I just kept plugging along, worrying more about how my pants don't fit due to my newly-developed butt. Who has time to worry about anything as trivial as a knee?

Jillian, you hottie wench you, you knew it wasn't acute pain--it was more of a dull ache--so, you said not to worry. I heard you. What's a little soreness at my age? I focused on the upcoming Madonna concert and on how the people at the place I work (but I do not speak of my place of work but if I DID talk about it I would say this) are very religious and are always blessing me and praising god and expressing their fundamentalist beliefs and touching me while praising the baby Jesus. Big Jill, this religious work thing is part of the Universe's toying with me. It's no mistake the Universe brought me to this place of Baby-Jesus-overload-while-in-mortal-pain thing. I focused on ignoring "She Who Must Not be Named" as much as I ignored the slight messages from my leg.

Well Jillian, this week I noticed the pain was getting a bit more chronic. I noticed my gimpiness was growing. I whined louder, I limped along a bit slower, I cardio-kickboxed a bit weaker, I stopped wearing those dress shoes (which seemed to make things worse). I loved those new dress shoes. I paid a lot of money for those dress shoes. I wanted to wear those dress shoes.

MJagger told me over and over about her chiropractor. I tucked the info in the back of my head but took no action. I didn't think there was reason to take such action but knew I could take that route if needed. I didn't write down the guy's name but I knew if I saw it in the phone book, I'd recognize it. I didn't think I would need to access this information. It was nice to know and nice to have....

Jillian, I waited too long. I was miserable last night. I couldn't get comfortable in bed. I couldn't walk without looking like there was a potato chip in my butt. I couldn't wear anything but gym shoes. I couldn't sit at my desk without shifting and griping. So, I decided to call that chiropractor. I couldn't wait anymore. I didn't want to go to my medical doctor because I figured he'd either say (a) Don't do any exercise for the next seven years of your life; or (b) you need surgery--let's rip that puppy open; or (c) here's some pills--take three, they're small. Don't do anything for three weeks but take these pills. It was 7 am and I was at my desk and I could NOT for the life of me recall that guy's name. I sooooo wanted to remember it. I went on line. I dug around. I couldn't find it. My knee ached. My head hurt. I. Wanted. To. Hurt. Someone.

I had to take action, Michaels. I went to my insurance web site and started scrolling though the "approved" list of local chiropractors. (Not on company time, of course. I hadn't started work yet. Really.) I read the little doctor blurbs, I considered their specialties, I looked at their office addresses. I decided on some guy on the street down the block, picking him for his location (so I could scoot to/from the office as needed), for insurance coverage, for his expertise in sports injury and because his website didn't look too weird. I called and set up the intake appointment, giddy with delight he could get me in this very morning.


The Universe was giggling in the background but I didn't listen.In the meantime, MJagger emailed me the name of her chiropractor and I'm like, "Duh! I knew that!" but I didn't change my appointment with my insurance-covered guy. I figured why change it now. That did not amuse her but it's me and she's used to me so she wasn't surprised.

Jillian, you should make sure she loses 10 pounds via your program just for putting up with me.

Well, I went to my new doctor, whom I shall call Dr. Jesus. Why? Because as I'm pulling into the parking lot, I'm looking at one of those fish symbols on the sign and I'm thinking, "uh oh--fish sign. Praise the Baby Jesus.") Sure enough, I am swallowed up by the Baby Jesus. His first words are about God bless, God Bless you, God bless this, God bless that. Oh God. I'm sitting there thinking,

"I'm tithing my deductible to the church."

"God love you" signs on the walls.
God this-and-that posters.
"Guideposts" magazines in the racks.
I am surrounded by the God of the Christian Right.
Not Buddah god.
 Not Mother Earth Goddesss.
Not Higher Power 12 step God.

God God. You know, kneel and genuflect God.
 Brimstone and Fire God.
She Who Must Not be Name's God.
You're going to hell God.

It absolutely figures that I mistakenly, blindly, unknowingly picked the most religious chiropractor on the planet from a list of like 100 names.

Jillian, do you hear the Universe belly laughing? The Universe is trying to tell me something. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to go to the convent or if I'm support to convert to something or if I'm suppose to call the Pope or if I'm supposed to try to be the first lesbian priest in the Church, but I know there is some message here. My employees (well, if I had employees but since I don't talk about my job I don't have employees but if I had them) are always thanking Jesus for bringing me to them, my place of employment (if I did indeed work there) is faith based and now I am seeing Dr. Jesus.

Jillian, why? Why does the religious-right theme continue daily through my life? Sweet baby jesus, eight pound six ounce baby jesus, please tell me! Is the ghost of Billy Graham living in my house?
Am I destined to be on the 700 Club with my newfound lust for the Christian Right? Why? I am all good with God. I like God. I like you, baby Jesus.
But, this!
This is too much.

By the way, the problem has been diagnosed as a popliteus this or that. I don't know what it is but I do know it hurt like a bitch when he pressed on my leg a certain way. Too much Cardio kickboxing, wrong shoes, wrong gait, wrong blah blah blah, need rest, need treatment, you know the song and dance.

Although I'm glad it is something not so serious sounding, I'm sending you the bill. First the butt, now the knee. AND I THOUGHT YOU LOVED ME!

I should have stayed broken up with you. I'm sending you the bill for all those new shoes, too.

Tomorrow, I go back to Dr. Jesus and get to see my x-rays and learn all about my mode of treatment. If it involves going to church, I am so calling you so I can scream at you and call you naughty names. LOUDLY. I can't whine to MJagger. She deserves a break from me. If she's smart, she'll be too busy telling me, "I told you so" if I say anything about not going to her doctor and I'll deserve every minute of it. No, you pay my bill and explain the Universe to me.

Jill.EEEE.Ennnnnn. I don't love you anymore.

DO YOU HEAR ME, MICHAELS: I DON'T LOVE YOU ANY MORE!

You best get praying this knee is better by the time the Madonna concert rolls around.

Sincerely,

Addi Warrior Princess