My father, who is just unbelievably cool, sent us an inversion table for Christmas.

It’s a rack. You strap your ankles in, hang upside down on it, and it stretches your back muscles out, so they feel better if they’re sore.

I know, it sounds like some kind of arcane torture device, but I used theirs a few times while we lived in Arizona, and it worked pretty well. My father swears by it, and since I inherited the bad back from him…well, I’ll try using it regularly for awhile, and see how it goes. (My back has actually been fine, although I haven’t been to the chiropractor since last month, what with the holidays and all, but it’s presumably only a matter of time until it goes foul again, being sort of sensitive and granted my Slouch Of Doom.)

Having assembled the device, James and I eyed it for a few minutes warily.

“You want to go first?” he asked. I looked at him. He looked at me. We both looked at the rack.

“Uhhh…” I said (Translation: “Hell, no, but say something chivalrous so that I don’t have to admit that I’m afraid a lug nut somewhere isn’t lugged and it will snap shut like an upside-down bear trap.”)

“Well, I gues I’m the one with disability insurance,” he said. (James speaks fluent Ursula) We strapped him in and inverted him somewhat, then…um…reverted? Deverted? Just verted?

“Cool,” he said dizzily.

And it is, indeed, cool.

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