a new wrinkle

There's a new wrinkle in my future marriage to the chiropractor.

Well, a couple, actually.

In fact, that relationship is so wrinkled, it's like a chain-smoking granny on a tanning bed wearing the blouse I ironed last weekend upsidedown and drunk. With a baby in my arms and one hand tied behind my back. Riverdancing.

Wrinkle Number 1: Meta-Relationship Goes De-Meta
My chiropractor knows about this blog. In fact, the whole office knows about it. (Well, except for the physical therapist, but that's because I've said less than flattering and fake-falling-in-love-with things about him.)

Does my imaginary love affair have to crumble when he knows I know he knows about it?

I vote no.

(Come on, the man still jabs his thumbs in some very important places and I am NOT willing to give that up yet.)

Wrinkle Number 2: What My Future Holds
Every Thanksgiving, when we go to Boston, we go to see the psychic. There's a whole tea room full of them near my sister's house, and we make it a practice to see what our future holds whenever we eat turkey. (Or non-turkey, as the case may be.) In the past, the psychics I've seen have told me that my current relationships wouldn't work out (which, surprise, surprise, they didn't), that I should stay away from "the man in uniform" (which I heard twice and found more than slightly creepy the second time around), and one, when I told her that I teach adults, asked me if the adults I teach are retarded. (I had a hard time saying no.)

Anyway, this year the psychic told my mother that I'd be marrying a doctor. (I was too busy asking my psychic about what to do with my job to think about who I was going to marry.) She also said "the family would be growing" which I think my mother hopefully interpreted as my sister having kids. (I had to remind her that it might just be my doctor...)

Now, I wonder this: was the psychic a) telling my mom something guaranteed to make 90% of mothers in this country happy, b) picking up on the vibes I've been putting out on my blog, or c) telling me something... special?

I'm voting somewhere between b and c, but that's just because I'm the author of the whole imaginary romantic kerfuffle to begin with, and I pretty much get to determine how it goes.

Wrinkle Number 3: The Prescribing Doctor
There's a new doctor in the office. Well, he's not new, but he's new to me. (He's the one who legally has to write my prescription for physical therapy.) And boy is he pretty (for a not particularly tall guy)! I'm thinking he's probably at home alone right now, despondently moping around his apartment, wishing I was there with him to warm up this clammy winter's night. A bottle of wine, a crackling fire in the fireplace, and me in my sexiest outfit -- a big, bulky sweater that makes me look like I weigh three hundred pounds, some truly sexy medical shorts that I'm pretty sure will be released on the Victoria's Secret runway next season, and my barefeet in my shoes.

Oh, no, wait, that's the outfit I was wearing when I met him. (Awesome.)

He, too, says really romantic things like the chiropractor used to. Like "I'm going to push on your head now. Tell me if it hurts." (Sadly, I found this exceptionally funny.) (I blame the shorts.) Ever the epitome of lashing wit, when he rubbed my brainstem and asked how it felt, I replied, "You could do that all day and I wouldn't mind a bit." (Great.) He pulled on my knees, yanked my legs over my head, poked me in the hip and didn't even break a sweat. I, of course, was spouting out charming witticisms the whole time like a fucking idiot.

He did mention my boobs and how luscious they were. (Well, ok, he told me to move my bra strap out of the x-ray so the metal wouldn't show up, but that's kind of close, right?)

*sigh*

With my luck, he's probably gay and only wants me... to shop for less ugly clothes.