Crap, I must be getting old. After being able to put my body through various ridiculous stunts, both onstage and off, it was one little ill-prepped back bend in Sex At The Circus rehearsal last night that had me whimpering like a kitten. It didn’t start there, but I can trace the root of it all started a few nights back at the Bootleggers Ball, which was the fundraiser for the Vancouver Police Museum.
Being an avid Vancouver-o-phile, I was happy to support this museum. I never really knew about it until I was painted like a zombie and lying on an old autopsy table (the same table where Mr.Errol Flynn had been stretched out years before, no less!).
It’s a wonderful little piece of hidden Vancouver that people seldom know about other than children doing a field trip, or burlesque dancers doing a demented photo shoot. So when I heard that my hottie-from-heaven roommate Lola Frost was dancing and the Creaking Planks were performing, I set about trying to wrangle a spot on the guest list. Since it was a fundraiser, there was no guest list, so I did the next best thing: wore vintage lingerie as a cigarette girl and shook people down for money. I’m pretty good at that. The problems came at the end of the night when, after one too many bathtub gins later, I thought I’d impress the boys by picking them up. Literally, She Hulk styles, sans ripping clothes.
Sometimes, I forget that that I’m 5’3, and not the toughest cookie out there, despite my mindset telling me otherwise. I forget about things like leverage, weight distribution, and lifting with my legs rather than my back when in heels. I may have gotten away with it if I had confined it to just one night, but Saturday I did the same damn thing at the Anza club. Both nights the guys were good sports about it, though they may find bruising around their ribs. Two interesting thing I have noticed about myself in retrospect when I drink is I’ll either try to lift object (or people) much larger than myself or I will try to climb things to get to higher ground. I’ve come to in more than one tree in a party dress, and I’ll take this opportunity to point out how much easier it is to go up a tree in a vintage evening gown than it is to climb down again, but I digress.
So, after hoisting my male friends around and doing that one stupid back bend, I am now sore. As in I’m eating muscle relaxants like candy sore… which is something I’m not used to dealing with. Normally I’m pretty limber and I don’t notice the odd twinge here and there, but this is pretty bad. When things get to a point where you have trouble dealing with them, you tend to try methods that you may have previously not considered. It was when I was trying to loosen the muscles with a hot shower that an idea crept into my head… maybe it was one too many Robaxacets, or the shot of whiskey, but I reasoned a theory.
When we were young, they sold, ahem, ‘Back Massagers” at Shoppers Drug Mart. They were huge and plugged into the wall. I’d be shocked if those things, once bought were ever used for massaging backs, but that’s where the idea took hold. What if, instead of using one of these drug store massagers I used something handy in the home? Another kind of massager? It might do the trick when applied to tense muscle tissue, right? I have the batteries ready to go so I tested a vibrator out to see if it could fix the knots in my back…
Some ideas are so much better in our heads than they are in practice. The ‘massager’ I had didn’t do bugger all, except drain two large batteries and eat ten minutes. So I’m back to putting a heating pad on it. It turns out sex toys, much like massages, are so much better when human hands are involved. And there is one less thing for you to ever wonder about: vibrators make crappy back therapy devices. So it’s with my achy back I’m throwing in the towel and getting a massage later. Much as I love mechanics, sometimes it pays to bring in a professional to get the job done right.
Thus endth the lesson.