Hello, Aren’t There Any Good Looking Male Physical Therapists Out There?

It’s Christmas Eve. One would hope to have the ground lightly covered in a soft, fluffy, powdery snow to get into the mood. Nope. Not this year. We get rain. And not only do we get rain, but we get freezing temperatures. I woke up in a frantic because I forgot to put a bill in the mailbox. I throw on a jacket, don’t even bother with the shoes and head out the front door. It’s only rain, after all! I’m not made of sugar.

I’m not made of all weather tires either. My foot hit the (what I thought was wet) pavement. I was wrong. It was solid ice. I no sooner touched down then I went flying. I couldn’t land on my padded ass, it had to be my back. So after 2 weeks of dealing with it I finally go to the doctor. She sends me to physical therapy (though I prefer to call it rehab — I get more looks that way). So here I am, twice a week, FOR A WHOLE MONTH, I am going to rehab.

Not that my therapist isn’t good, but look at it this way. I’m already in pain. I’m already stiff and grouchy. I don’t want to work harder. What incentive do I really have? Yeah, yeah, a better back; I get it. But what’s wrong with some eye candy? If I have to be there doing all of this hard work, why can’t some muscular man be working out the knots? Not a part-time soccer mom for crying out loud. The eye candy can even be gay as far as I am concerned. Just give me some motivation to want to go there, ok?

Thank god for the pain pills and muscle relaxers. At least I have something good out of this whole ordeal.