|North Arm of the Fraser River meets the Straight of Georgia.|
Ok, so you know spoke'n'scene is the bike path to sex, happiness and world peace. I write to you because I want to share the joy I've discovered through my love of cycling. I am convinced that if more people got out of their cars and on their bikes, the world would be a much better place. Unspoken yet underlying this mandate is good health. Those tolerant, indulgent people whom I call friends know that I can be a bit bossy sometimes when it comes to health-related subjects.
Going to India? I am the girl pressing a bottle of probiotics into your hand and issuing strict instructions to take plenty of them, on an empty stomach whenever possible to avoid any possibility of Delhi Belly. Why?Probiotics give your body the ability to resist being overpowered by foreign to you bacteria from an unfamiliar water supply. It's common sense, right?
Don't get me wrong. I am certainly no doctor, and there are absolutely no credentials I can offer to support my opinion, but I advise my friends freely, and sometimes in-your-face-ishly. I would shut up and keep it to myself, but I can't, because for some crazy reason, I'm usually right. It's not that I'm clever. Not at all, in fact it's more the opposite. (Just ask mum, she'll tell you how stupid I can be.) No, it's just because I am rather sick and twisted, and I've somehow managed to survive a few decades despite my physical limitations and my many boneheaded moves.
|Boneheads R Us|
What sorts of limitations? Ok, for example, the people of my twisted genetic tribe have pretty bendy, stretchy joints, which is good for flexibility, but can pose other problems, too. Some of mine do something silly called subluxation. That means that the joint sort of pops out and then pops right back in again. As you can imagine, it is not the most pleasurable sensation ever. Fortunately, there are a few things which help in situations like that, beyond strength exercises and proper diet. Sometimes I get prolotherapy for the ligaments supporting various joints. Prolotherapy is when an ND injects directly into your joints a combination of vitamin B12, procaine, and dextrose. This is done to simulate and injury and initiate your body's healing response so that it grows a new sheath around the ligament and thus making it shorter and stabilizing the joint.
I have it done in all sorts of very awkward places, like the vertebrae in my spine, my hip sockets, and my knee joints. Sometimes, prolotherapy is applied to the nerves themselves. Then it looks like this:
And yes, it sucks, but on the plus side, I can now identify subcutaneious nerves. They feel sort of like embroidery thread, or dental floss running along under your skin. And in the end the temporary pain is well worth it, because I can ride my bike, and when I bend my knee like this
the joint does what it is supposed to do.
Which is perfect, because it means I can do this
and THAT underscores the whole purpose of this post.
The reason I keep nattering on and on at you about happiness is that I am convinced a happy frame of mind is the best way to trigger the body's tremendous healing potential. It is an integrated bio-chemical soup, your body, so of course nutrients and a lack of toxins play crucial roles in your well-being. Emotions are a bio-chemical mix too, though, a factor often ignored when many people examine their own health and wellness. Stress, anger, resentment, guilt, jealousy... you know, all the nasties born of fear? Killers, the lot of them. If you want to be truly healthy, it's essential to somehow find peace of mind.
That's why I love a good laugh. It really is the best medicine. One of the most beautiful young women I know sent a story to me the other day. Girls, this is for you. I'm not sure if you can say it's about the power of love, but I laughed till I cried, which is always good for you, and so I thought it best to share.
Heh heh.Like everything in life, farts have a time and place. However, I never realized that in the wrong time and place, flatulence had enough power to alter my course in history. Well, it can if it’s the third date with the man of your dreams. And, if it makes his eyes burn. If God destined us to be together, I was one SBD away from foiling His plans (that’s “Silent But Deadly” for you prudes).
It was about five years ago. I was trying to lose a few pounds so I was staying away from carbs. That’s when I met my husband, Rob. On our first date, he booked the next two. He liked me. I liked him. Things were looking real good.
He picked me up in a Cobra, Mustang and his pathetic attempt to win me over with a car totally worked. I’m not shallow, but since I spent most of my twenties picking men up because I didn’t want my hair to frizz in their non-air conditioned jalopies on 3 wheels and a 15 year old spare, I welcomed his fancy sports car with open arms.
We arrived at the restaurant and Rob was ordering food I hadn’t allowed myself to eat in years. I didn’t want to be “that girl” so I ate, drank, and oh, was I merry. Later we shopped a bit. Rob surprised me by buying an expensive pair of shoes that he caught me eyeing. Was this love?
That’s when it happened. Gas strikes in two different ways – uncontrollable toots or sharp, shooting pains that feel a lot like dying. I thought I was dying. Not to make a scene, I told Rob I suddenly wasn’t feeling well and probably needed to head home.
On the way home in his Cobra, he tried to hold my hand and ask me lots of questions, but I wasn’t having any of it. The pain was so bad it felt like I was being stabbed with a bunch of tiny forks. Then I realized …
My God, help me. I have a horrendous fart on deck. I’m in trouble. Big trouble.
HOW DO YOU TELL A MAN YOU JUST STARTED DATING, THAT THE REASON YOU ARE WRITHING IN PAIN IS BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO FART.
The more I held it in, the more pain would shoot through my stomach and down my legs. I was even having to raise myself off the seat, gripping on to my door and the dashboard.
“Seriously, you need to hurry – I’m in a lot of pain.” I managed to say through gritted teeth.
“Wow, it’s that bad? What’s wrong? Do I need to take you to a hospital?”
How do you tell a man you just started dating that the reason you’re writhing in pain is because you have to fart?
Well, you can either tell him, or like me, let the fart speak for itself.
People, hear me. There was nothing I could do. As impressive as I am with sphincter control, this was out of my hands. Slowly, it eeked out. The more I tried to stop it, the more it forced its way through the door. However, to my pleasant surprise, there was no sound. I sat silently, sweat accumulating above my upper lip. Ok, maybe I got away with it. Maybe I’m home free. Then it hit me. Not an idea, a cloud. A horrific, fart cloud. Not in a, “am I smelling something?” sort of way. More like a “is someone dead and rotting in your trunk and am I in hell?” sort of way.
Suddenly, I panicked. “Roll down the windows!” I screamed (yes, I literally screamed it like I was in a horror movie).
“What? Why?” Rob asked, starting to freak out because I was freaking out.
“I can’t roll down the windows, unlock it! UNLOCK IT!”
“What’s going on?” Rob yells back to me, “Why are you …” then it hit him. I could see it in his eyes. Was it surprise? Horror? Water started to accumulate at the base of his eyelids, “Oh my God, I CAN TASTE IT!” he screamed.
“Roll down the windows!” As I screamed, the toots started to flood out uncontrollably. I scratched and clawed at the window like I was being kidnapped. Rob, unable to see either by fart cloud or panic, kept turning on the windshield wipers instead of unlocking the window.
It was chaos. We were acting like we were under siege by gun fire. We were under siege alright, just not by gun fire.
Finally he was able to hit the right control and he rolled down our windows. We both gulped in fresh air. I was horrified, yet happy to be alive, then remembered I just farted on the man of dreams, then sorta wished I was dead.
We sat silently for the rest of the way home. Although the shooting pains had subsided, I now desperately needed to use the bathroom, in an urgent, explosive kind of way.
He pulled up to my apartment and before he could come to a stop I had already jumped out, “Ok, thanks for dinner, sorry about the fart, love the shoes!” and ran in to my apartment like I was running from the cops.
I burst through my door and ran straight for the bathroom, where I was finally able to unleash and make noises that no one should ever, EVER, hear coming from another person.
Then I heard it. Rob’s voice. Right. Outside. My. Bathroom. Door.
“Anna? You left your shoes in my car and your front door was open. Where do you want me to put them?”
“Get away from the door!” I scream like Reagan from The Exorcist.
“Ok, I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
*toot* *toot* *splatter* *ungodly noise*
“I’m fine, Rob – just leave the shoes there. I’ll call you later okay?”
“Okay, are you sure you’re …”
“I’m fine! Get away from the door!”
This man! I mean, I love him, but take a freakin’ hint!
Finally, I heard the front door shut, and the Cobra engine zoom away. I thought that was the last I’d hear from him. I didn’t think it was possible to ever see a man again after he screams he can taste your fart after only knowing you for 48 hours.
But, to my surprise, I did. A couple days later, actually. Now we’re married and he’s lying on the couch while I type this … “It was your rack that saved you,” he just lovingly reminded me.
As Leroy so wisely advises,
Ride Joyfully, All!