I was fine for at least a week after my fabulous Labor Day weekend golf game.

Though we did not keep score, Mrs. A was especially good during the round at North Shore Golf Course, parring two holes and bogeying another and I personally felt satisfied that all those sit-ups and gobs of herbs she gives me had fixed me up enough so that I would never have another problem with back pain.

For those who have not heard, I am another one of the walking wounded, one among the gazillions of back pain sufferers around the world who spend their days either recovering from a back injury or nearing the onset of one.

It seems that no amount of therapy, book reading, supplements or surgery can stave off the inevitability of another visit by the vertebra with a vendetta .

So for me to risk a round of golf and then have a few days of apparent freedom from a back attack was a pretty good victory, that is, until I went to get out of my van.

Swinging my legs out first, I leaned over to grab my camera bag and ‘zzzoink’…it was like those cartoons where the freshly-dazed character has little stars and birds circling around their head.

It is my personal theory that human evolution has not progressed quite far enough from the knuckle-dragging primates that are said to be our predecessors and that walking fully upright is an imperfect practice that perhaps should be avoided.

As it is, today I spend a fair amount of my time hunched over like an oversized letter ‘C’ with legs, and after that glorious round of golf (and then the twisted trunk boogaloo that did me in) I will lurch my way around the house, one shoulder higher than the other, half-dragging my right foot: a beast in bad B-grade horror movie.

The dogs even avoid me when I shuffle by and Mrs. A is more than a little exasperated (even with her two birdies and a 20 foot putt) that I tend to moan and gripe a lot more when I’m so banged up.

But, my friends, hope truly does spring eternal and today it was my turn for some goodness.

Don Nack Jr. called me to ask for some help with a little project (many FedWaylians know him and if you don’t yet, he’ll get to you eventually) and so I shuffled over to his place on Steel Lake.

When he saw me slither out of the seat of the van, he said, “Oh NO Scotty…not AGAIN.”

Donnie is very familiar with back trouble as a contractor himself (and as a schooled massage therapist) and he is well acquainted with my history of spine trouble.

He grabbed my arm and helped me down to his patio, saying, “I’ve got exactly what you need, pal.”

“You mean, a mint julep and a winning lotto ticket?” I wished.

“No,” he explained, “something better!”

And there in front of me was a strange contraption that looked like a chaise lounge mounted on a triangular stand with straps and leg irons, vaguely reminiscent of some sort of medieval torture device.

“You’re gonna love this, Scotty,” he said and he had me lean on the rack portion while he clamped the leg irons over my ankles. “Is this because of that $30 dollars I owe you…because I know I’m late and I ..”

“Shhhhh,” he said and he proceeded to tip my feet up in air until my hat flew off, sunglasses went asunder and that’s when I felt a ‘popping’ sensation.

“WOW.” I cried. “Did you hear that!” Donnie smiled (at least I think he smiled, or else he frowned…I was head under heels at the time) and said, “See, pal…it’s called an inversion table…gravity is a good thing if you know how to use it!”

And so there I was, blood rushing to my head, looking for all the world like a piece of ugly, low hanging fruit, but, oddly, feeling pretty good.

Donnie left me there while he answered the phone and I didn’t mind (though I did begin to wonder if this is how Batman got started) and when he returned and tipped me back over, I nearly begged him to leave me upside down.

Donnie graciously offered to let me come by anytime for a ‘flip’ and I do believe I’ll take him up on this.

This evening as I write this, I’m feeling better than I have for nearly a week.

And though Junior said there are no side effects, I find that I’m inclined to stay up real late now, combing my hair into a widow’s peak.

I wonder if that old tuxedo I have came with a cape?