Striding through the door to the physical therapy place, I realized too late that I should have worn pants.
The guy on the phone scheduling my appointment told me to wear comfortable clothes. I’m at that age where I give zero fucks about owning anything uncomfortable, so I just showed up in what I’d been wearing all day: my work clothes. I’m a children’s librarian, so my work clothes consist of a frumpy, long cotton dress and an open-front, long drapey sweater vest, both from Lands’ End, and Birkenstocks with no socks.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I noticed through the windows that the place has lots of exercise equipment. Treadmills, a weight machine, free weights, those giant balls that you sit on to strengthen your core. You know, typical workout stuff.
“Huh. That’s weird,” I thought. “What is this? Some kinda health club or something? What have I gotten myself into?”
You see, up until tonight, my only experience with physical therapy had been as an observer while visiting my elderly parents in rehab as they tried to recover from things such as having a ventilator shoved down their throat for a few days, or after bouncing back after a third episode of renal failure. Each time I observed them “getting physical therapy” they were laying in bed or on a comfy lounge chair, wearing pajamas. The physical therapist would lift one of their legs and see how far they could move it this way and that way. They’d do a few rounds of toe crunches and ankle rolls. I think one time my mom even got a massage out of the deal.
I, personally, had never been to physical therapy before tonight, but I had been to a chiropractor a handful of times after a car wreck, and when I was experiencing back pain with my pregnancy fourteen years ago. No special clothes necessary. Each time I’d simply lay on a cushiony table and the chiropractor would push my legs around and shove his hands firmly into the small of my back. A couple times I got this nice, steamy heat treatment on my shoulders even. Oooh, that was nice.
I have lots more experience with massage, both professional and spousal. All you have to do is take off you clothes (talk about comfortable), crawl up on this cushiony table and cover yourself with warm blankets. The masseuse takes care of the rest. You don’t have to lift a finger until you tip the professional massage therapist at the end. Or, when you give your spouse that look with the wiggling eyebrow and the “come hither” finger motion, wordlessly announcing it’s your turn to touch them.
And that, my friends, is how I ended up striding through the door of the physical therapy place tonight without any pants on. I hadn’t really thought about it being the kind of place where I’d be the one doing all the physical movements in a manner much less like lying back and getting a massage and more like having a personal trainer demonstrate, and then observe you completing, various exercises to improve your muscle strength to relieve pressure on your sciatic nerve so you can do things like putting your right sock on all by yourself or sitting chris-cross-applesauce with the kids at Storytime without crying out in agony. Miss Becky is cranky when she hurts. Miss Becky hurts so much she’ll try whatever she can to make the pain go away, including going to physical therapy. Next time, though, Miss Becky will show up fully prepared, pants and all.
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