Okay, a lot of details have been creeping into my daily routine that have me afraid that I might be living someone else’s lifestyle. The red Vespa. The tiny Maltipoo. The Season Pass to the Jane Austen series on PBS.
But perhaps the greatest departure from my God-fearing Catholic upbringing comes in the form of my Monday morning appointments with Dr. Jin, the acupuncturist.
When the Writers Guild leadership decided to strike, my wife knew that my stress level, already somewhere in the ionisphere, would go into orbit. Soothing words don’t work on me and I don’t like to be touched, so she opted to send me to a traditional Chinese herbalist. To get accupuncture. For stress.
After going for two months, the first thing I have to say about it is it works. Stiff neck? Jab! and in a few minutes it’s gone. Stuffy nose? Jab! and in 30 seconds the sinuses drain. But for stress? That’s a whole different needle altogether.
Jab! Right between the eyes.
And it’s always the first one in. I swear, it makes the sound of tearing sandpaper as it forces its way through the epidermal layers. And just as she’s doing it, she says, “Deep breath!” meaning, I should take one.
I need a deep breath so I can scream, “Oh shit, lady, you just jabbed a needle in my face!” but I never do. I just stare at that thing waving around in front of my eyes like a giant stray unibrow hair, waiting to be plucked at the end of the hour.
What’s really amazing is that, a minute or two later, I am completely relaxed. Then I fall asleep with thirty needles sticking out of me, feeling vaguely like a runaway spending the night on Venice Beach. Must be the needles.
