Dear Kid,

I was distracted at physical therapy.

Not the “Squirrel!” kind of distracted.

The “let’s give your bones some room to breathe” kind of distracted. The “your legs are pretending to be two entirely different lengths and we intend to address this” kind of distracted.

I know you’re learning about this in school which is why I’m bothering to tell you about it.

Because The Reality has nothing whatsoever to do with the theory you’re being taught.

Allow me to explain.

There I was, lying on my back, trying to overcome a diluted caffeine system (what with it being first thing in the morning), ligaments and tendons grumbling at being forced to move (everyone knows that respectable ligaments don’t move before 10am), when

WHAP!

In the mere blink of an eye, the merest nano-fraction of time, my mild-mannered khaki-clad physical therapist transmuted into full-on dominatrix mode. Black leather, spiked heels, domineering grin. The only thing missing was a whip. Oh, wait. Patient leg, whip, pretty much the same thing. And WHAP! my leg cracked through the air levitating my body a good six inches off the table. Then, PHWAM! I slammed back down (dang gravity).

“Wha? …”

“Mmm-hmmm” smiled the PT, all traces of sadism successfully hidden away.

“What?” When you’ve got a good line, stick with it.

“Well, if I’d told you what I was going to do, you’d have tensed.”

Um, yeah, and with good reason apparently.

The physical therapist molested my ankles. “Much better.”

Clearly, we do not share a definition of “better”.

Love, Mom