Based on the title of this entry, I bet you figured this would be about how I finally faced the realization that I'm totally messed up, and there is no hope for me without professional help, and so now I'm finally giving in and going to see a therapist.
But, I'm afraid you'd be figuring wrong. Because frankly, I haven't faced the realization that I'm totally messed up.
No, instead, I'm talking about physical therapy. Which, in my mind, might very well be a worse realization, because I don't need physical therapy for an injury I obtained while sliding into third, or diving across the sand court and landing on my shoulder while making a save on the volley. No, I'm having physical therapy for a pain in my hip that seems to have happened without any significant event happening whatsoever.
And that, of course, means I'm getting old. At least, my body is. My mind is fine. No problems there. I'm as sharp as...
Sharp as...
Uh...what was I talking about?
Oh, right. Physical therapy.
I don't know what happened, seriously. Near the beginning of the summer, I started feeling pain in my hip (well, the joint between the hip and my leg, in the front). Walking is fine, but various motions where I rotate my leg, such as sitting cross-legged on the floor, have been increasingly painful. I figured it was minor, and so ignored it for most of the summer. But ignoring it didn't seem to actually help, since the pain was getting worse, not better.
I bit the bullet, saw a doctor, who then did an X-ray to rule out arthritis. (Arthritis! I mean, if you want to make a guy feel old, threaten him with arthritis!) But I'm arthritis-free. Instead, I have some tendon problem with a name I can't even tell you because I can't read the doctor's handwriting.
Next stop? Physical therapy. Starts today.
I've never been to physical therapy, and suddenly I realize I have no idea what in the world the protocol is going to be. Do I strip, don a white towel in a steamy room while "Hans" massages my back? I'm pretty sure that's a spa, not therapy.
Do I dress up in sweats, lining up with twenty other folks and go, "Uh-1, uh-2, and lift, and stretch, that's right uh-1, uh-2..."
No, I'm pretty sure that's an aerobics class.
I do know I have my own personal "therapist". I think her name is Cassie, or Carrie, or Callie. I just remember it starts with a C and ends in an -ie. Oh, and I found out yesterday that my first appointment will run 45 minutes to an hour. Not exactly sure what I'm going to be doing for that long. But am I going to have to strip and don a white towel? I hope not.
And the weirdest part of all this is that for the past few months, I've been trying to avoid moving my leg...and now I'm going to pay some girl big bucks to purposely cause pain. I don't think they realize that I'm a wimp. A full-fledged, self-diagnosed wimp. I don't like pain. My wife laughs at me when I hurt myself, because I'm the kind of guy who yells, and jumps around howling for five minutes when I stub my toe. Me no like pain!
But, I suppose it is all for the best. Hopefully, after my scheduled six sessions, I'll be able to sit cross-legged again normally. So, let the therapy begin.
