let the torture begin

I started physiotherapy this week for an injury I incurred over the long weekend. My knee’s been aching constantly, which is annoying me to no end, much like a dripping tap in the middle of the night – only I can’t cover my head with a pillow and make this go away.

Let me start by saying : I have a feeling that my Muay Thai boxing career is coming to an end.

Which gives me mixed emotions… I love boxing.  It’s fast-paced, energetic and it a definite stress reliever for me.  Picturing certain people as I pound the crap out of a heavy bag is a real relaxant… as I’m sure you can imagine.

But I get hurt a lot.


This never deters me from licking my wounds and getting back in the ring… until now.  This injury has hampered my ability to live these past 2 weeks.  I can’t sleep because rolling onto my left side hurts. I can’t squat down to play with my children.  Walking fast is as painful as childbirth.*** Not to mention the agony of trying to shave my legs (damn shorts…) or climb the stairs in our house 400,000 times a day (why did we buy a house with 3 levels?!?!?!)

But I digress

Enter my physiotherapist – we’ll just call her Torturer (not her real name obviously, but well deserved) – a lovely 15 year old young girl with a wide smile and infectious laugh. She drifts into my little corner of the clinic, obviously either well caffeinated, or my appointment was simply early enough that she had not yet been jaded by the pain-induced cussing and name calling that so often occurs around the clinic.

This girl is familiar to me.

We exchange the obligatory banter… “Hi, I’m so-n-so, I’ll be working with you”….I’m trying to pull the name, the face, the bubbly attitude from the memory bank… nothin’ – GAWD this is annoying.

“When did the pain start?”

“When I hit my leg”

“Is it bruised?” (insert generally concerned naïve smile here)

he he

I lift the leg of my shorts to expose the bruise on my thigh.

Jaw drop.

Should you be disturbed when the physiotherapist looks genuinely disgusted?

Fast forward to the point that she starts massaging the muscle.

Wait. No

Let’s start where she had me lie down, slide to the very edge of the table/bed thingy, with my leg hanging off to test the range of motion…

Innocent enough, right?

Yeah, then she poked the muscle and I shrieked (oh, does that hurt?) then she started bending my knee while stabbing me repeatedly with a steak knife massaging the muscle.  You can see where she’s getting her pet name from now right? I was getting an arm workout as I gripped the edges of the bed over my head, instead of doing what I really wanted to do.

Grab that skinny little neck and wring it.

Fast forward 20 minutes or so…. Hubby stops by to bring me a latte as I’m hooked up to the IFC machine and then heads off to work. (He loves me).

ANYWAYS – Apparently having mashed up my IT Band and injured my quad would result in me having these knee problems.  Silly me, not thinking of that.

SO That night, as I’m bitching we’re discussing how physio was so terribly painful Hubby says to me

“Well your physiotherapist has certainly come a long way from working at the coffee shop across the street.”


That’s where I knew her from.

And instead of the relief I normally feel here, having figured out that which was nagging me… I’m a bit disturbed.

***I’m totally employing hyperbole here…. it’s obviously not that painful. And considering I had a wonderfully natural back-labour birth, there’s a pretty big threshold to cross there…

I am so NOT a spa girl

It’s true.

Anyone who knows ANYONE that knows me will tell you that I’m not a patient person, and to truly enjoy the spa, you have to be patient and just relax.
That’s just not in my DNA.

BUT – my feet were screaming that they needed some TLC so I finally caved and called the spa.

They had a ‘seat sale’ – last minute appointments that were 20% off – and a pedicure was available the next day at 4:30, so I booked it.  Hubby had given me a gift certificate for Christmas this year (in the hopes that I would BECOME a spa girl ~ his pampered princess) so I figured what the hell.

That evening, disaster struck.  I decided to help Hubby wash his truck.  He had the leaky, crappy pressure washer hooked up in the garage and the puddle of water surrounding it made the floor like an ice rink to my pretty little Croc sandals.  In my very best Bambi-on-ice impression, one leg went one way, the other leg the opposite direction and I ended up in some sort of random pretzel form on the garage floor, with my foot tucked up underneath me, and my pride severely injured.

Great.  Now the top of my right foot looks like hamburger.  Awesome.

And shit – I have a pedicure tomorrow.  How good is a paraffin wax treatment going to feel on an open wound?  I better cancel.

Sooooo I call the spa the next morning clearly explaining that I’ve hurt myself and that there is an open wound on the top of my foot, so I’m really sorry, but I’ll have to cancel.

Spa Girl:  “You know about our cancellation fee right?”

Me: “Ummmm – sorry?”

Spa Girl: “Because you didn’t give us 24 hrs notice, we have to charge you”

Me: “Are you kidding?  I just booked the appointment within 24 hours!!! How could I possibly give you notice before that???  AND I’ve got a gaping wound on my foot. I don’t get a pass for that???”

Effing Spa Girl: “Well, I can let it go this time, but if it happens again, I’d definitely have to charge you”

Wow. The generosity is overwhelming.

Anyone who knows me, know that I’d definitely never be going back again…

Except that I have a gift certificate.  And I’m cheap.

Damn spa.