Ode to a Whiny, Pantywaist Wuss

Remember the other day when I was whining about therapy, how electrocution didn’t agree with my gentle nature and how humorous I found my situation? Allow me to retract those misinformed and under-experienced, nay naive, statements.  Alas, I was a bit agitated at the time and prone to exaggeration.

Now, or at least as of this morning, I have become somewhat more enlightened as to the true nature of pain. Pain is that special something you can’t quite put your finger on (because it would HURT too much).  Pain is that ever-present, ever-loitering, nosy neighbor who invites himself to dinner when the cupboards are bare.  Pain has a name……and its name is George!

As you may have already surmised, George is the name of my secondary physical therapist and of him I am not terribly fond.  George thinks “No Pain, No Gain”, but says “Just let me know if this hurts at all” while crushing the life out of you with a crippling full Nelson!  Pain, I can deal with…but George hurts.

To sum up, it took me about four and a half hours this morning to traverse the distance between the bed and the coffeemaker—it’s fair to say that the pain was worse than it was a month ago.  When I finally rose to my full height, I was truly surprised to find that my former “pain in the butt” had evolved all the way down to my toes (which is alledgedly a good thing, as circulation throughout the length of the muscles means that the knots and kinks are being addressed), but that only served to hinder my forward progress.  By seven this evening I’d become virtually sprightly, but only by comparison.  My calls to the therapist’s office yielded only orders to “Do your stretching exercises”, which is prudent advice unless you happen to be a mannequin!  I still like the idea of a tranquilizer dart and an elephant gun, but only if I get to whine for awhile before getting shot.  Whining completes me.

IF I’m vertical tomorrow, I’ll dash off something more cheery.

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