I have this amazing charley horse in my left butt cheek and I am getting no sympathy on the home front. Normally when I leave physical therapy, I feel great after my 20 minute massage. I sorta feel like Nadia Comaneci. No, I won't tell you what is wrong with me because you are freaking nosy.
But when I showed up last night, instead of my perky little therapist Julie, there was this hulking freak in a too small polo. And, side note, you just know he is the sort of guy who intentionally buys them too small to make his arms and neck look bigger. But I digress. For the purposes of this post we will call him Dolph Lundgren. Dolph was filling in for Julie and apparently had no clue what my deal was or what I normally do. So I tried to explain using very small words what I normally do and then tried to do my exercises.
Things got weird immediately, because Dolph kept calling out my reps and saying things like, "That's it. 5 more. All the way. Come on," in this weird monotone. It made me want to giggle, until I noticed he had attracted the attention of everyone else in the room. All of whom were working silently with their therapists LIKE I NORMALLY DO. I finished my exercises and kept thinking, "OK, all I have to do is get through the massage and I will never have to suffer with this freak again because I am so telling Julie about all this. And it's not like he can chant like a perv while he's massaging me." My injury is in my upper ass region and spreads to both hips, so normally I get basically a lower back rub. Totally covered by insurance! Score! And Julie might say something like, " How's that? That's not too hard is it? Wow, your muscles are like concrete!" But that's about it for conversation about therapy, we usually talk about our poodle fixation. I planned on giving Dolph the silent treatment.
However, this was when Dolph decided to go porno on me. He started kneading my hips with his giant meat hooks way too hard and saying things like, "How's that? Is that hard enough? Do you like that? Is that good for you?" I was on the verge of hyperventilating, I was trying so hard not to laugh. So I tried to tell him that he was mangling my hips and was not even in the ballpark, when he switched and started shoving his thumbs into my upper cheek by my hip. And returned to chanting like a disinterested porn star : Do you feel that? Is that hard enough? Do you like that? All I could do was bury my face in my elbow and try to stop laughing. He continued to jab his thumbs rhythmically into my left hip, all the while demanding in a monotone to know whether I was "feeling it." I tried to find my happy place.
And then. And then he farted on me. Loud, trumpeting, "I just ate Chipotle" farted on me. A fart that, if it had come from my husband, would have demanded that I throw the remote at him. And laying on that table, I figure my nose was maybe 20 inches from ground zero. And you'd think he would have said something like, "Oops" or "Sorry" or "Oh my God, I am so embarrassed that not only am I bruising your hip for no apparent reason but now I've farted almost on your face and you are technically paying for it." Nope. He just kept going. So with all the dignity I could manage, I slid off the table away from Dolph's thumbs and porn chant and mumbled, "That'sfineIgottago."
So of course all day, I get text messages like:
"Dana, is that hard enough?"
"Do you like that?"
"Can you feel that?"
Not only did I feel it, I smelled it. And, darling husband, technically you paid for it.
~dana
