Call me crazy, but I’ll never forget how thrilled I was the day I discovered I could crack my own back.
It wasn’t a matter of money. One of my best friends was a chiropractor with a posh if minimalist office just a block or so around the corner from my office at the time, 30 Fifth Avenue. I would swing by during his mid-morning or late afternoon lull and he’d take care of me in a New York minute: cervical, mid-thoracic, sacroiliac joint.
He wasn’t one of those chiros who loaded you up with Standard Process supplements on your way out the door. No, he stuck to his knitting – subluxations of the axial skeleton – and I appreciated that. But was this what I had to look forward to: maintenance care for life? De-kink my neck and back, un-torque the SI joint-- month after month, year upon year? Turns out it wasn’t.
My self-care discovery happened completely by accident. We were on the floor stretching after, what was it, an “Abs of Steel” or “Botsu Booty” class at my gym. All this lying on the floor and exhalation stuff was kind of new to me, but once I gave into it cool things started happening.