I am happy to report a near normal night of sleep. Which for me is about six hours and waking up three or four times. So I may resemble something close to a human today.
Today is my first official physical therapy session. I dread this. I picture some bitter old Marine drill instructor, endlessy chewing on the butt of a long-ago smoked cigar, barking out orders to stretch while beating me behind the knees with a cane. Then I am forced to counteract this ghastly vision by imagining Tiffanie, the fetching part time therapist, part time Falcons cheerleader. Clad in clingy spandex, she encourages my stretching excerises by caressing my buttocks, all the while telling me breathlessly to stretch "deeper, oh deeper, YES YES JUST LIKE THAT!
(bubble bursts)*pop*
But color me skeptical about anything using the word "therapy". It's an old bias of mine. As I majored at a lofty community college in psychology, I learned what traditional therapy really was (which changed my career path) and how it often merely prolongs suffering.
In my jumbled mind I've applied this mindset to any application of the word therapy. Therefore I look at PT as the refuge of the weak. This likely can be traced though, to my ex-Marine father who's remedy for any injury was rubbing some dirt on it and getting back out there and playing. Including the time I broke my finger, rubbed some dirt on it, kept playing and then broke it in a second place.
I now however openly embrace what will occur later, as I have maturely reached the conclusion that no amount of dirt will pop my disc back into place.
What? I need more therapy than just physical? Surely you jest.
Besides, just as dirt heals the most gaping of physical wounds, a good stiff drink will bring you around for mental wounds.
At least that's the way I see it. I'm still kicking it Old School over here, people.
Drink up and bring on the dirt.

By the way, does anyone else ever get the desire to dress up like Thurston Howell III and go around calling everyone "lovey"? Nah, me either.

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