What does it take to turn Jan A. Igoe’s world upside down? Uncork a bottle of wine, invite a few friends over and grab a wrench to find out.
Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
How many women does it take to change a lightbulb? Some would say it takes one to hold the bulb and two to turn the ladder. That wouldn’t sit well with my friend Diane, the brilliant mechanical engineer, who would assemble dozens of experts to postulate the exact number. But they would suck the humor right out of this column.
Assuming we don’t ask an engineer and we’re not dealing with a lightbulb—but rather an inversion table that arrived in 700 perplexing pieces—three would still work. One to decode the instructions, one to swing a wrench around, and one to keep the wine glasses full—the most important task. When women assemble complex objects, we need wine.
I thought about this inversion contraption for a long time before ordering one because: 1) They are enormous; 2) They don’t fold and stash neatly under the bed; 3) There’s no place to hang clothes on them. When you realize you haven’t ridden your recumbent bike in three years, at least you can accessorize it with colorful fashions. Or repurpose it as a planter.
But an inversion table isn’t exercise equipment. It’s a last resort when your back declares mutiny and there’s not enough Advil on Earth to put down the rebellion. Anything that promises relief is worth a try, even if it means inviting an alien creature into your living room. My chiropractor said the tables help, so I finally clicked the “buy now” button.
It arrived in a 6-foot box that weighed 75 pounds. After lugging it inside, I spent a full week staring at the box. (I tend to do that when it’s time to tackle a task above my pay grade.) When I finally summoned the courage to open it, a smorgasbord of estranged parts leaped out, daring me to figure out where they belong.
I had considered avoiding the whole assembly phase by finding a used one. Lots of them show up on Facebook Marketplace, where users claim they work wonders, despite how eager they are to unload them. But what if someone with my engineering skill put it together? When you’re hanging by your ankles, you really hope a dingbat didn’t tighten the bolts. There’s also the matter of cooties.
Anyway, Lucy brought her tools and I supplied the wine while my dogs made off with every crunchy accessory. Surprisingly, we only screwed a few things in backwards. And no surgical tech could have handed parts to Dr. Lucy any better than I did, despite how many times she called me Ethel.
In a couple of hours, I had a working inversion table and hopped right on. Within seconds, something in my back popped (a chiropractor-quality pop) and the pain quit even before Lucy left the driveway.
I was still hanging upside down when the dog returned with partially chewed instructions on how to use the thing. Unless you’re a world-class gymnast, you shouldn’t try hanging heels-over-head right away. Regular clumsy people should start with a 15-degree angle for a minute or two and make gradual adjustments, giving the body time to adapt. Baby steps.
Bad things happen to inversion virgins who skip the manual. You’ll find them on YouTube screaming for help when they get stuck upside down like capsized turtles. “Help! I’ve inverted and I can’t get up.”
I didn’t get stuck, just dizzy enough to get a bloody nose when I fell into the fireplace. Lucy might be right about the Ethel thing, but let’s not tell her.
Jan A. Igoe wishes everyone a terrific, painless summer with no lightbulbs to change. Feel free to write her at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop any time.