Last Monday, I had an unexpected day off from placement. Thus I found myself at the Broadway Jazz class that I almost never get to take because of certain clients who can only meet me after office hours. This instructor's choreography is usually a little precious (I guess that's to be expected, given what the class is called) but still a nice balance between challenging enough to be fun, and easy enough to get a good workout out of it.
So, since I had all this excess energy from a restful weekend with malfunctioning stovetops sparking merrily just eight feet from my bed, that sort of thing, I went for the routine with more gusto than usual. I had exited the spin and was going for the big fist-in-the-air ending when I heard and felt a glorious crack.
I thought I'd injured myself dancing, and it would not have been the first time, but a split second later I realised I wasn't in pain, I was out of it.
Five whole years after its onset, to be exact. One morning in 2004 I woke up with my neck out of joint, and it never quite seemed to go back. A change in pillows and several visits to a Chinese sinseh acclaimed for his joint work, not to mention countless Thai massages and chiropractic adjustments, didn't improve it. For five years I had gone through life with a neck that only turned about 35 degrees to the left before creakily, crankily giving up and making me pay the price in pain and discomfort.
All that's in the past now. It's been a week and I still have the same mobility. I was always puzzled by how a seemingly simple problem (according to the professionals who, nonetheless, were never able to fix it) had managed to remain for so many years. Now I am equally perplexed by the fact that it only got fixed through my being in this particular city, having signed up as a member of this particular gym, taking this particular class because on this particular day my counselling placement centre was closed at the last minute to give its staff a rest after their Christmas carnival.
I always knew that dance was healing...