Some things are too embarrassing to share with the Internet. Do I need everyone to know I am a horrible mom and put my daughter on the wrong train? Or that I got all confused in the spray-on tanning booth and made my feet look like this? Often things will happen in my day to day life that would make for great writing material. Then I think, "No, I could never tell anyone about that!"
This topic is exactly like that. I don't want Briefcase to know. I don't want my friends to know. My shame and embarrassment is so great, however, I am going to spill my guts today. I need to tell someone. I'd just hate for anyone I know in my real life to find out.
The Torturer thinks I'm a big, fat marshmallow. Yes, he does. OK, maybe he didn't say it quite in those words, but it's exactly what he's thinking. I'm a big, fat, white, squishy, soft, overly large, marshmallow.
He might be right, but that isn't the point.
First of all, his name is THE TORTURER. Doesn't that imply that, just maybe, he isn't always the nicest guy? Oh sure, he pretends to be all concerned for my well being. He says he wants my arm to work again and blah, blah, blah. I think it's all a crock of shit. The man lives to torture me, and this is just the latest proof.
It started in May as I was trying to recuperate from my last surgery. He ordered me to start walking, while swinging my bad arm, for an hour a day. Something about getting the electo-neuro impulses working again or something like that. I have always walked a lot for exercise so it was easy to get back into a post-surgery routine of 4 miles most days. A month later he instructed me to add in daily workouts in my pool to strengthen my arm. No problem, I hopped right in the pool and I've been downright religious about those pool workouts.
Last week he instructed me to start wearing sneakers when I come to PT. To be honest I forgot he even mentioned it. I don't always listen to him because, let's be honest, there's just a lot of blah, blah, blah coming out of his mouth most of the time. When I walked in today, in my cute (!) and very comfortable sandals (with just the slightest heel), he scowled at me. "Where are your workout shoes?" he snapped.
"I didn't think I needed them to have you work on my arm," I retorted.
I certainly was not going to admit I never really listened to him in the first place. His eyes flashed anger as he contemplated the fact that, possibly, I intentionally ignored him. Instantly it was a match of wills.
"Get on the bike," he ordered.
No problem. They have an "arm bike" that you pedal with your arms. I haven't had the strength to use it, but I'm certainly willing to give it a try. I started to sit in the arm bike seat when he barked at me, "Not that bike! The leg bike!"
So maybe I have just a teeny, tiny, little, character flaw. I friggin' hate to be told what to do. I don't take orders
at all very well. In fact, commanding me to do something is the quickest way to get me to do the exact opposite. The Torturer seemed pretty pissed off though so I decided, just this once, to play along. It was a tremendous sacrifice on my part because I was dying to refuse just to see what he'd do.
I kicked off my (cute!) sandals and started pedaling barefoot on his cherished stationary leg bike. Pedal, pedal, pedal … yawn, yawn, yawn. Stationary bikes are so boring! The Torturer came over, still pissed off, and informed me that I "have not been doing" what he wants and that "clearly" I "need some guidance".
I immediately protested. I reminded him of my zillions of walks, and my daily workouts in my pool. He raised an eyebrow, gave me a skeptical look and told me I am "not fit". In other words, he thinks I can't possibly be walking or swimming because just look at me! I am a big, fat, white, squishy, soft, overly large, marshmallow.
The Torturer sent me on to leg presses next. I was scowling at him as I (easily!) completed several sets of leg presses. There are, after all, muscles under my fat and how dare he imply otherwise!
Another therapist approached me and commented that exercise creates endorphins, endorphins lessen pain, less pain equates to faster progress in healing so don't get too pissed off at The Torturer.
All of that might be true, but I call bullshit anyway.
A zillion hours later The Torturer got around to working on my arm. Immediately he started in with the blah, blah, blah lecture. He, again, made it clear, that he doesn't believe I'm walking and swimming which I am. He, again, mentioned I am "not fit" (read: "YOU'RE FAT"). He, again, let me know that I need to get my "whole body in shape" so I can be my healthiest. He said my arm can't heal if I don't have a
hard healthy body.
Well, I will say this. If The Torturer wants to give me "free" personal training while I'm already at PT, then fine. I'll take advantage of it as soon as he stops insulting me. Yes, I have always been on the curvy side. The perverts always love me so my curves can't be that repulsive. (?)
In all honesty, five surgeries in a two year span has probably not been kind to my "figure". I'm definitely less toned than I was prior to being incapacitated. Nonetheless, if he implies I'm fat one more time I think I'll reach over and squeeze his beer belly real hard. After all, it reminds me, just a little, of a soft, squishy, marshmallow.