Crack Whore

I am sickeningly addicted to cracking my back and neck. My desk chair at work is optimally poised to enable maximum back crackage. All I have to do is push against the arm rests with the heels of my hands while I arch my back against the custom-fitted foam contours of the chair back and POW POW! Two years ago, I had surgery and was out of the office for a month and desperately wanted Christian to break into work and steal the chair so I could get a good crack.

When I can hear and feel my neck getting crunchy, I know that a little massage will loosen up the joints enough to get a good, meaty pop if I roll my head JUST RIGHT. Christian's neck cracks are the subject of much jealousy in our marriage. He can get four and five at a time from EACH SIDE when I can only get one wimpy, surfacey one.

Before he hurt his wrist (bastard), Christian had the back-crackin-knack and could push down just right on either side of my spine to get a cascading thwwwwp of released pockets of gas that would render me insensible from joy for at least five minutes (in which I would usually see how much our rug needed vacuuming). Some of my fondest memories are of the cluster cracks Christian wrung from me, especially after I had just worked out and was all limber. We always said we should either video- or audio-tape them for sentimental reasons.

"Ah, do you remember the five cracker of '03 after you did The Firm?" "Ah, yes, that one was for all posterity. Let's watch it again!"

We've even been known to call each other at work with tales of excellent cracks the other had sadly missed hearing. I just got TWO really good back cracks and needed to document them for my later years when osteoporosis and arthritis will inevitably make such cracking impossible.

But for now, I shall crack my little heart out.