I am the type of person who misinterprets things. This is especially true when it comes to health. This means that when I feel a small twinge of something in my back, I automatically assume the worst. One of three things usually: 1) Kidney failure, 2) untreatable cancer, or 3) proof that aliens abducted me, inserted some kind of tracking device and it’s now causing both kidney failure AND untreatable cancer.
The triple whammy!
They didn’t mean to do it, I should add. They thought they were tagging me like a bear for research. But it turns out that thanks to an online bargain, they got some cheap, knock-off trackers made with toxic materials. And this is the result.
Yes, my hypochondriac imagination does get a bit elaborate.
What I do NOT think is that maybe I just tweaked a muscle. Or that maybe something simpler, or more realistic, is at play.
This was the state of me recently. Back hurting. Frantic updates made to my will. Wondering which court had jurisdiction when my family goes to sue the extraterrestrials.
Only, it seems I haven’t been alone in experiencing back pain. Because at about the same time I came across an article on the Internet with a headline that read: “How to cure back pain … which is not caused by aliens.”
The painful truth was that I had become a “sloucher.”
You know … a sloucher. That thing your mother warned you against. That if you didn’t sit-up at the table, you would grow up to be a broken-down geezer with a crooked spine and a failing kidney and aliens wondering why they bothered wasting a tracker on you.
It can be caused by a lot of sitting – been doing a lot of that the past year – but even worse, bad posture while doing it. The kind of posture that is best likened to a blob of gelatin that drank too much the night before and is now oozing toward the floor. Such a slouch that you are almost horizontal in your office chair. That your spine resembles letters of the Chinese alphabet.
Dang, I hate when my mother is right!
This article chalked it all up to what it called: Anterior pelvic tilt.
“OH NO!” I thought. “This is worse than the alien thing!”
It has a horrible sound to it, doesn’t it? Like “double quadruple bypass” or “gingivitis” or “remedial toe fungus.”
Anterior … pelvic … tilt!
First off, I know very little about the pelvis, or what it does. My entire knowledgebase is that if you tilt it in polite company, you should stop. As it could get you arrested.
Apparently the pelvis is important, though. This article said it helps in walking, running and lifting things. For some reason, it also plays a critical role in attaining proper posture. Only, its fatal flaw is that it listens to your mother even less than you do, and when you slouch, it tends to tilt down. All because you don’t say things like, “mind your posture, Pelvis!”
As it tilts, your belly droops, your spine curves and your back screams in pain.
But, my good people, it can all be solved … without even mentioning this to your mom. (My mother doesn’t even read my column, so your secret is safe!) All you need to do is learn how to straighten out your pelvis, which might be the strangest thing I’ve EVER typed.
For the past couple of weeks I’ve been working on my posture while sitting, standing and walking. All trying to tilt my pelvis forward, or up.
You have to be conscious about it, and do it all the time. To remind myself while walking around, I repeat little sayings over and over again in sing-song fashion. I say, “Tilt the pelvis, tilt the pelvis. Make it bend, make it bend …” Unfortunately, I say these things out loud. People hear them and shield their children’s ears, or cross the street altogether.
Or I’ll be having a conversation while working on my “tilt.” Someone will inevitably notice and then say, “Would you mind NOT gyrating your pelvis at me? This is a church, for goodness sake!”
I’m now also trying to do exercises to help me strengthen and re-align my pelvis. Things like squats, glute bridges and planks. I don’t know what any of these things are, except that you can’t say any of them in polite company without people staring.
Planks work the ab muscles in your stomach. They work the abs by sending what feels like 30,000 volts of electricity through your stomach muscles, causing you to crumple into a fetal position. There your family will find you, sit you up and ask, “Did you try to do a plank again? How long did you make it this time?”
“Two seconds,” I reply. “Then I collapsed on my nose. I think it’s broken.”
But it seems to be working. The pain I was feeling in my lower back is completely gone. Even more exciting, my pelvis is straightening up. (Dang, that’s awkward to say!) I look less like a man who is trying to smuggle a bear around his waist. My abs and glutes might also be benefitting. Although the burning pain from the exercises is too excruciating for me to bend over and check.
Most importantly, I no longer fear that I’m dying from some kind of alien tracker probe poisoning my kidneys. And I won’t ever have to hear my mother tell me to stop “slouching.”