Nobody told me P.T. stands for Personal Torture

Since the pandemic began, I've put on weight. So much that my body has been complaining about it and my back is flat-out screaming in pain, "No more!" It hurts when I bend over and really puts the kibosh on my doing house work. Mowing the yard is a joke. Every week the neighbors gather on lawn chairs to watch my torturous ordeal. What used to take under an hour now takes double the time, mostly just having to rest my back every couple of rows.

Alright, so I'm working on my end by dieting. But it's still not enough.

My wife says, "You need to go to P.T."

"But...but...whyyyyyyyy?"

"Because I'm tired of hearing you whine about your back."

"But...but...honeyyyyyyy, I don't whiiiiiiiiiiiine!"

Well, against my better judgement, I signed up. Oh, but first I did my best to avoid it.

Begrudgingly, I told my doctor my wife wants me to go to physical therapy.

The doctor said, "Your wife's right. It should help you."

"But I don't have the right clothes for it," I whined lamely (Writer's note: I know that last bit is shoddy writing, but I couldn't resist the gag.).

"What do you mean you don't have the clothes? You got sweat pants?"

"No," I replied.

"Well, go to Walmart. They have sweat pants. You got any shorts?"

"No. Well, not any good ones."

"This isn't a fashion show," said the doctor with a sigh. "Go to Walmart."

I also "accidentally" missed all of the physical therapist's phone calls. But they proved relentless. After their final threatening text that they'd tell my doctor if I didn't call them back, I caved.

I just got back from my first P.T. event. No one told me that the "P.T." stands for "personal torture."

Earlier, my wife told me, "Just relax and enjoy it."

Enjoy what? The therapist was one of those guys with muscles on top of muscles and the legs of a satyr.  And here I am, all flabby and pasty in my Walmart shorts. The guy flips me onto a table and pokes and prods and pulls and pushes until not only my back is screaming, my entire body is groaning, practically asking, "Why me?"

I'm exercising muscles that have long atrophied, muscles I've never knew existed before. He seems hell-bent on strengthening my butt muscles and I giggle over how many times he says "butt." (In times of extreme duress, I have to find humor in the unlikeliest places.) When he starts working on my spine--"loosening me up" he calls it; more like breaking my back--I'm watching the seconds on the clock tick by, one agonizing second at a time.

Finally, when the blue-haired squad arrives as the next round of victims, I practically collapse and kiss the carpet, knowing my hour of torture is about over.

Too bad I gotta go back in a couple more days. Twice a week! And I have to pay an outrageous amount to be pummeled. Seems that they have that last part backward. How can something that's supposed to be good for you be so damned painful?

P.T. isn't for everyone. Nor for the weak of heart (I kinda wonder how the blue-haired, little ol' ladies make out under torture. Maybe they just go to ogle ol' Satyr legs.). In fact, I'm all for banishing physical therapy under violation of the Geneva Convention.

I should've never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever gone to Walmart. That's my takeaway from this.

While on the topic of torture, have you heard about the secret society of like-minded individuals? You haven't? What's wrong with you? The secret society of like-minded individuals is comprised of serial killers who've signed contracts with a shady, secretive organization called Like-Minded Individuals, Inc. for protection, new identities, and list of prospects so the members are freed up to do what they do best: kill. And these are the "good guys." It's complicated. Read all about it in the first book of the trilogy, Secret Society.

 

The Most Dangerous Woman in Kansas

I walked into my mom's apartment with my customary greeting, expecting to hear sighs of ill health. The way we roll. "Hey, Mom, how're you doing?"

Instead, my mom backed away. "Stop. Stay where you are." Hand out, like some kind of cop or something.

"Why?" I worry she might be sick. "Is something wrong?"

"No, but I'm dangerous!"

Now there are many words to describe my mother, but "dangerous" wouldn't top anyone's list. Well, except for the fact she still thinks Trump is a wonderful, "God-fearing" leader. And, let's not forget when she was still driving past her expiration date, Mr. Magoo-ing her way through orange cones and stop signs. I'm sure she was pretty dangerous then.

But now?

I had no choice but to play along. "Okay, Mom...why are you dangerous?"

"Because it's what everyone keeps telling me. About this virus."

Well. First thing's first, she doesn't really see or talk to anyone. Who are these mysterious people proclaiming her dangerous?

"Mom, you're not dangerous."

"But it's what everyone keeps telling me!" She shakes her head, ticked off that I'm not getting it.

"You're vulnerable, not dangerous!" I raise my voice to get my message across loud and clear. Hard of hearing that she is, I repeat it three times.

"You don't have to yell at me, Stuart!"

But I kinda do since she refuses to get a hearing aid. "Mom...you're considered elderly which makes you more vulnerable right now. I'm probably in that category, too, now. That's what 'they' mean."

Still shaking her head, she's not gonna budge. "Everyone says I'm dangerous, Stuart. You just don't get it." 

I get that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, so I'm just gonna live with having a dangerous mom.

Be careful out there, folks. And if you see my mom coming...RUN!

In fact, why not "run" safely to Amazon, and check out the new rerelease of the final book in my Secret Society serial killer, darkly comic thriller series, Killer King, put out by those fine folks at Crossroads Press? Go on...I'll wait for you right here.