"Whiplash," he'd told me over the phone. "I can make you feel better sooner. Come see me."

After having promised myself that I wouldn't give in to the pain in my neck, I was forced to admit defeat. I booked an appointment with Taylor, my chiropractor/friend.

"Whiplash," he told me as I sat in his office, fighting tears. "I know it really hurts but don't cry. I don't want to have to go get a Kleenex." I bit my lip and stared at him. He threw up his arms in shock. "Shit, you must really be in pain. I at least expected a 'fuck you' or something nastier."

But I was in pain--moreover, I sat there in utter disbelief, wondering how a punch to the jaw two weeks ago could still be hurting me like this. "Taylor, how can this be? I mean, when we were kids, my brother used to routinely beat the shit out of me--it never hurt like this."

"That was different--your brother wasn't trying to hurt you."

"You obviously didn't know him."

"Well, Ann," he said, and I knew to take in a deep breath, that I was about to hear what I think of as Taylor's manta, "you're older now. Your body ages and when it does, it can't recuperate as quickly as it did when you were young." He visibly flinched in anticipation of what he thinks of as my mantra, but I couldn't even muster up a good "fuck you." 

He did all the poking and prodding and twisting and turning that I could stand and, as we finished up, he taught me a few exercises and then said, very clearly, quite loudly, "ICE IT."

"Taylor," I whined, "you know I hate ice. It is too damn cold. I like my heating pad a lot better."

"Heat is bad, Ann," he said, interrupting my protest.

"But heat feels SO good..." 

"Well, chick, it ain't that kind of party. Ice it."

We exchanged inappropriate jokes and then, as we shook hands, we asked for updates on each other's personal lives. He's married, happy. "How's your son?," he asked, "What's his name again? I am sorry--I just can't remember it...."

"It's 'Dylan' and he's doing really, really well," I said, as Taylor slapped his head in recognition, remembering my son's name upon hearing it. "My dog, by the way, sends his best."

Taylor backed up, bumping into two of the woman who work for him. They stopped to listen as he pointed at me, shaking his finger. "She's got this dog...a little wiener dog. It hates men. Absolutely hates them. It came after me one night and I had to jump up on her kitchen counter to get away from it. I landed on her son's pizza and ended up with pepperoni all over the ass of my jeans. 'Rocky'--that's his name, right?"

We all chuckled and then I understood the moral of the story, something that I wish I'd learned earlier in life, as I'm fairly certain that it would've shaped me so that things would be quite different for me now: if you want a man to remember your name, you gotta act like you're about to chew off his balls. Rocky, for that reason alone, will never be forgotten.