Earlier this week, I went to a doctor-prescribed physical therapist to get some advice on my leg. I tore a calf muscle a few weeks ago, then did it again last weekend. It’s apparently not that severe, as such things go — the therapist told me he wasn’t ‘impressed’ with the swelling or limping. I told him I’d try to do better next time. Then I hobbled out the door and keyed his damned car. Smartass.
(Nah, I didn’t really do that. I had no idea which rusted-out Honda Civic in the parking lot was his, anyway. And I didn’t have time to key them all. Not until he fixes my leg and I can run around again, at least.)
Anyway, he was a nice enough guy, so it was all right. I don’t have anything against him, really… other than the fact that he is a guy. This is physical therapy, dammit! And I’m a guy — aren’t I supposed to get some young, just-out-of-school, hair-flipping, ex-cheerleader blondy type? Not that that sort of thing would particularly do much for me, either, given the wife and all, but if somebody is gonna spend twenty minutes rubbing the back of my leg, couldn’t it at least be someone I don’t mind imagining in a pair of thong panties?
(And just for the record, I’m pretty sure this guy does not paint a fetching picture in one of those ass-floss gadgets. Yeah, I can say that with a fair degree of certainly.
Hey, what can I tell you? My mind wandered. He was the only one in the room. There was leg rubbing. Leg rubbing! Meh.)
Okay. Running screaming away from that mental image… that’s gonna keep me up tonight.
So, anyway, after Sir Knead-A-Lot was done with my calf, he listed out a few exercises I should be doing, so I don’t rip the thing again. Fine. There were a couple of simple stretches — good leg forward, bed leg back, and stretch the back of the leg as far as you can. No problem.
(Well, some problem, of course, since fully stretching that leg would feel a lot like having it fileted and split open like a jumbo shrimp tail. But still, they’re pretty straightforward exercises. I can deal.)
Finally, though, the guy tells me this:
‘Oh, one other thing — it’s good exercise for your calf to balance on that leg. Just whenever you have a minute or two, try standing on the bad leg for thirty seconds or so. That’ll help strengthen the muscles.‘
Okay, now you’re all caught up. So, on to the ‘doofus’ part.
Now, I’m a good little patient — even if they apparently won’t hook me up with a ‘naughty nurse’ type, the bastards. (What the hell are my HMO copayments for, anyway?!)
So, I’ve been diligently doing my best to heal — icing down, taking it easy, and yes, even doing my exercises. Including the circus-style balancing doohickey. And that’s what got me into trouble today.
I was on my way to lunch, riding down the elevator, when I thought, ‘Hey — what better time and place to get in some good medicine, right? Let’s get exercising.‘
Before I go any further, you should also know that our building has the slowest goddamned elevator in the world. So, I had time to stretch one way, and then another way… do some ab crunches, a couple of pull-ups… and six or eight lopsided jumping jacks… before I remembered to try the balancing thing. So I gave it a shot, just about the time the elevator slid past the third floor.
So, picture this — when the door opened on two, unexpectedly, because a gaggle of businessmen decided they couldn’t haul their fat asses down one flight of stairs, there I was. In the elevator. Standing on one leg, making that ‘balancing face’ — you know, with my eyes all wide and googly and my tongue hanging out of the corner of my mouth. I tried to save face, as it were, but it was too late — they caught me, doing a damned flamingo impression on the elevator like some brain-damaged douchebag. It didn’t help that the car gave a little shimmy as it settled, sending me falling and flailing into the middle of the suits trying to clamber aboard. Perfect. Just friggin’ perfect.
I almost got off the elevator right there, so I could wait a few minutes and then limp down the stairs after all the witnesses had safely fled the scene. But I decided to gut it out, and rode the rest of the way down with them. Hell, I even made the best of it — once the doors closed, I hopped up on one leg again and gave them a ‘Heh? Heh? You know you wanna try it.‘ look.
Nobody went for it, of course, but I had a good time. At my own expense. Again. No love, folks; no frigging love at all. Come on, now. Ain’t nobody gonna feel sorry for the crippled boy with the bum leg?Permalink | 2 Comments