Wendy Coblentz
The First Time
I first used the principles of my Alexander Technique training on the streets in San Francisco. After I dropped my car off at the dealership, I exited the ramp, turned down O’Farrell Street into the bowels of the Tenderloin and headed for the Westfield Shopping Center, south of Market. I started down the block. Fast. Think about walking up, I said to myself, ignoring lower back spasms.
I buttoned my coat flapping against the wind and directed “neck free” as I made my way past one man sitting on the sidewalk with five stuffed black plastic garbage bags and another using a Stingray bicycle as a phone. My head moved forward and up as I grew to 6’ when I passed by a drunk sprawled in a doorway surrounded by empty Thunderbird bottles, and a cluster of men next to a market with a flashing pink neon sign, Get Your Lottery Tickets Here. Two men babbled to themselves while lighting up a pipe and three guys across the street draped in blankets exchanged small plastic bags. My back lengthened and widened while sidestepping an old woman toting a bulky white mesh shopping bag with a pair of chicken feet peering out the top. I glanced at a middle-aged couple in Bermuda shorts studying a map. I ignored the woman wearing a fuchsia skirt, black fishnet stockings and stiletto heels pivoting in doorway.
My cell phone rang.
“Hi. What’s happening with the car?” asked my husband who was in Washington on a business trip.
I filled him in. “Nice neighborhood,” I added.
“Be careful. Hold on to your purse,” he said.
I stuffed the phone in my jeans pocket making a mental inventory of the contents of my handbag and gripped the strap. If someone grabbed me, I’d disregard my lesson on the whispered “Ah” and shriek like I learned ten years before in Tae Kwon Do class. My feet slapped like pancakes on the cement.
I entered Nordstrom, headed towards the designer footwear displays, and was immediately enticed by a black patent sandal. I looked for the salesperson as I turned the shoe over to check the price. “Stop,” I said under my breath, pleased that I had used my Technique training to inhibit a response to $400 stimulus.
After an hour, my back began a silent march in pain headed towards a coup d’etat. Tan short-weaved carpet invited me to lie on the ground. Nonetheless, I kept going while recalling my last retail experience. I had spiraled down to a blue stained carpet in the middle of an athletic store only to be told by the manager, “I wouldn’t lie there if I were you. You don’t want to know what’s been there.”
At least now I was upright.
After perusing the shopping center for another hour, my pain-free window crashed like a free fall elevator. I wished I could have continued my trek, yet my sense of direction ran into a dead end. I shrunk back to my 5’ 3” height and hailed a cab back to the dealership. Instead of negative thinking about my brief excursion, I congratulated myself on the use of primary control. Longer outings would be possible in the future. After all, this was only my first time.
Wendy Coblentz is writing her memoir, IT'S YOUR FAULT: a humorous journey through back pain, motherhood and self-discovery.
