I haven’t been able to participate in dance class in forevah. By my calculations, it’s been about two months. I get upset at this occasionally, but I’m still grateful that I got to perform on stage despite the injury, so my resentment is only mild to moderate.
Physiotherapy is doing a lot to distract me. I got my prescripion in the mail last Friday, let it lie around all week-end and decided waaaay past my bedtime on Sunday that, dammit, I must find a therapist this very second and call them first thing in the morning. Instead, I found a very conveniently located brand new practice that allowed to book your appointments online, even if it is the middle of the night and you have to go to work early tomorrow. So I flipped through their therapists on my phone, found the two that specialize in sports physiotherapy and picked the one with the most convenient appointment – et voilà!
The error of my ways became apparent when I walked into the shiny new practice to be greeted by one of the cutest-looking guys I’ve seen in a long time. Now, I don’t have anything against cute guys, or gals. I appreciate physical beauty. It’s just that beautiful, nice and confident people of any gender always leave my socially awkward self somewhat cowed. (Because how can anyone be all those things that I wish I was at the same time?! How?!) Friday’s modern teacher, Beans, has much the same effect on me.
Oh well, I thought, the first session will probably be embarrassing with me having to take off my pants for the physical exam and all that, but then I’ll get to hang out with a charming guy while he gives me exercises. Nice! Except nobody actually said anything about exercises. I just assumed there would be exercises. Mr. Adorable went with massage instead.
I’ve only had one massage session so far and it has – surprisingly! – already helped a lot with the annoying, low-key pain in the tendon and the hip flexors that I’ve had for several weeks now. Massage usually feels great, anyway. However, if you’re like me and one unsolicited pat on the shoulder from a coworker can make you hate them for years to come, having a stranger massage the inside of your thigh and your iliopsoas is not exactly a comfortable situation. Also, the therapist can’t just stare off into the distance and whistle a little song to himself while he’s performing the massage. He has to gauge your pain response and so he watches you. Closely. If the therapist massaging your thigh and watching you closely happens to be very, very cute, it can make you feel incredibly awkward.
Now, if this was interfering with the treatment, I would change my therapist. But since it’s only interfering with my piece of mind for half an hour twice a week, there’s no reason for that. Mr. Adorable is doing a great job, listening to all my complaints very closely and encouraging me. It’s not his fault he brings out all the awkwardness in me (and that there is so much of it to bring out).
Long story short: If you’re squeamish about physical contact, avoid adductor tendon injury at all costs. And maybe look at the therapists’ photos a little more closely before signing up.
PS: Concerning weird massages, nothing beats this hilarious, NSFW story by one of my favourite cabaret artists ever.