‘Ehehehhehhehh’

I hate that sound — "Ehehhehhehh!"

It means I’m wrong. I’m bad. I’m busted.

It means I may not pass go, I may not collect $200.

For 43 years, people have been saying "Ehehhehhehh!" to me.

It means I can’t get away with anything.

I’ve got to stop pushing, punching, provoking the girlies.

My first year of Alexander Technique teacher training was straight forward. Until now.

Over the past six weeks, I’ve learned how to put hands on. Prior to this, I was just working on myself.

("Working on myself" is what my mates say to their girlfriends when they’re out shagging.)

Now I get to put my bloody mitts on people lying on a table, but the teachers watch me closely and they keep going "Ehehhehhehh!"

Then I have to step away, think my directions, and start again.

I know the teachers only want to help me with my use, but it is humiliating.

If it was only teach and I, it wouldn’t be a big deal, but this takes place in front of the victims. That’s what I find humiliating. It tells people I’m not safe, that I don’t have a license to practice Alexander Technique.

This is the kind of attitude that nailed Jesus to a cross. All because he didn’t have a license to heal. Wasn’t certified by AMSAT. Hadn’t been approved by the matriarchy to put hands on.

I’m told to get my thinking right, my monkey right, before I put hands on. Frankly, I’m the kind of guy who only feels right once he’s got his hands on. Then I can start breathing. But this doesn’t cut it with the powers that be.

I’m told to attain my length and width before I put hands on. When I don’t do this, I’m ordered to "Take your hands away from the table and keep ‘em where I can see ‘em."

Then I’m asked to show my Alexander learners permit and proof of insurance. Then I’m asked to walk the line.

Geez, you should’ve seen the Alexander clinic I put on in Folsom prison.

All this criticism makes me I feel like I’m not good enough. That I’m less than. That I’ve failed. That I’m no Michael Frederick.

I want to be smooth. I want to march right up, lay my sheila out with just the right number of National Geographics under her head, put my bloody mitts on her, keep up a lively conversation across the room with my mates about who we did this weekend, and then think my directions, letting my head go forward and up, and my fingers lengthening, not grabbing, the victim.

In short, I want to walk up and impart my magic with my warm hands and loving heart, just like mommy used to do.

Can’t get fairer than that.

All these orders to think my directions, to think forward and up with my head, to think of my torso lengthening and widening, all this before I touch the sacrificial lamb, oy vey, it’s bloody mental.

I had this same sort of trauma in grade school. I badly wanted to touch the girls but the powers that be wouldn’t let me. So when I got glimmers of opportunity, I was so oppressed by the system that I had to lash out and kick the sheilas, poking them with sticks and putting tacks on their chairs and rubbing up against them in the hallway until they cried "Get away from me you bloody abo."

When the revolution comes, things are going to change around here, and certain sheilas will find out that they’re not as hot as they think they are.

PS. When doing semi-supine (Alexander Technique homework), is it OK to have a sheila lying on top of you kissing you passionately and running her fingers through your hair and telling you that she loves you and only you? I find that helps me lengthen and widen. But that’s just me. Your mileage may vary. Please check with your doctor before beginning this regime. If your excitement lasts longer than four hours, please call a professional (or pick up the kitchen knife and make a small incision in the bit that bothers you most, letting the excess blood drain away down the sink).