life as a classroom - by Isabel - Mind Mine

I laid down on the massage table as my massage therapist dug her strong hands into my hips, my hamstrings, my quads. She was teasing out knots I had so diligently built up by sitting like a pretzel every day, shrugging my shoulders up to my ears and contorting my legs over each other to get the most satisfying possible angle of leverage over the tiny keyboard I am so attentively trying not to hunch over right now. You need to stop crossing your right leg over your left. She said sternly. She then moved to the other side and exclaimed: and you need to stop crossing your left leg over your right! I sheepishly agreed. I had been feeling, for the first time in notable memory, mild lower back pain, the awakening of an old ankle injury, and tension that was creeping steadily up the muscles flanking my spine. I could tell that I was doing something—the way I was moving, the way I was sitting—to create a sense of imbalance and unease in my body that I wanted to correct. I asked her how to stop

I laid down on the massage table as my massage therapist dug her strong hands into my hips, my hamstrings, my quads. She was teasing out knots I had so diligently built up by sitting like a pretzel every day, shrugging my shoulders up to my ears and contorting my legs over each other to get the most satisfying possible angle of leverage over the tiny keyboard I am so attentively trying not to hunch over right now. You need to stop crossing your right leg over your left. She said sternly. She then moved to the other side and exclaimed: and you need to stop crossing your left leg over your right