Not only do I not sing neo-'60s soul music, nor come from the UK nor have massive beehive hair, but I do indeed go to rehab-- if not quite as a result of having overconsumed various intoxicants.
Ah, physical therapy-- or perpetual torment, whichever you prefer. The exercises per se are no problem-- in fact, I do many of them already and others are similar to ones I either do or have done in the past as part of my strength training routines. But the massage... OK, I know deep tissue therapy or whatever it is is breaking up the various knots and accumulated stresses of my overworked muscles that have had to overcompensate for my unhappy tendon, but damn, people, that hurts. My PT (=Personal Torturer, a moniker that amuses her) seemed a tad disappointed that she hadn't bruised me the first time she laid hands on the afflicted area; I make no predictions as to whether she's succeeded this time. Back I go on Friday; if at first she doesn't succeed, no doubt she'll try again. I just remind myself to breathe and tell myself firmly that it's helping to fix things.
Happily, I can report that my foot itself feels considerably better today after a full day yesterday in my walking cast, so I shall continue wearing said boot until told not to in the hopes that the improvement continues. Besides, I realized yesterday as I step-clunked my way down the hall at work (carefully, as they'd just waxed the floor and that shit is near-impossible to walk on in a cast) that once I'm on my feet again, so to speak, the boot-cast will make an excellent prop if I ever get to play Richard III. Good to know.
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