Don't say I have a boring life because after flaunting my right boob at all and sundry yesterday, I spent today having my exquisite derriere pummelled by a strapping, virile, young lad.
I’ve been hobbling around at school all week with brutal back pain just above my left buttock but as I had more important things on my mind I ignored it as best I could.
Yesterday, I phoned my Deputy Principal and begged for a second sick day off as I knew things were becoming desperate when it took me fifteen minutes to gingerly ease myself out of the car when I arrived home.
This morning's physiotherapist appointment was booked at a place called SportsMed. I assumed by their name they dealt mainly with elite athlete’s injuries and figured I’d add a bit of old cranky woman into their daily mix of clientele.
When I arrived at the clinic however, the waiting room was filled with elderly pensioner types so I wound up feeling quite the young spunk.
Until of course *Connor, the broad-shouldered physio called me in to the red room of pain and I wondered to myself why everyone else in the world is getting younger as I’m getting more and more decrepit. He looked as if he was barely out of high school.
After watching Pinky awkwardly attempt to touch her toes and perform cumbersome side stretches whilst yelping when her low pain threshold was crossed, it was deemed to be a ‘mechanical problem’.
In other words… Pinky needed a 200 000km service.
Up on the table I crawled, placing my face in the donut hole and staring at a decidedly uninteresting carpet for the next ten minutes while my lower back simmered under a hot pillow.
Soon the burly Connor was back, peering intently at my white and wobbling rump.
“Have you let anyone else give you a massage?” he asked in a concerned voice.
“No sir! I have not!” I replied. Apart from Scotto, no one is allowed near my bottom.
“It’s just that there’s bruising in the area,” he continued.
“You know… I do remember trying to push a really heavy set of portable stairs with my foot the day before the pain started,” I mumbled to the swirled pattern on the floor.
“You may have torn a muscle in your gluteus maximus,” Connor offered sagely. “That would cause some bruising.”
“You mean bum,” I sniggered childishly.
And then, the pitiless, unrelenting pounding of Pinky’s rear end commenced.
Whilst the talented youngster proceeded to discover every excruciating ligament in my left butt cheek with his steely thumb, we discussed music; Connor’s girlfriend, world politics, toy boys, hamstrings and the growth of the Aussie dollar.
We also uncovered the fact that Connor was twenty-four; exactly the same age as my eldest son Thaddeus (who by now should have also finished his degree and be out in the work force earning big bucks but has spent too much time partying instead of studying).
After the ‘dry needling’ experience (not acupuncture apparently although they do stick small needles in you) it was time to bid farewell to my new physiotherapist with a promise to catch up next week to check on how Pinky’s buns are cooking.
To carve out a career in the health care industry requires a special type of person and it must be so rewarding knowing you have the ability to make people feel better. I must say Connor was an extremely impressive young man who no doubt makes his mother very proud.
There is no way in hell I’d ever convince my son Thaddeus to give me a bottom massage… or any of my kids for that matter!
*Connor is not the physio's actual name. It’s Clayton.
*Connor is not the physio's actual name. It’s Clayton.
