… but enough about me

I’ve been in physical therapy for about a month now because of a rugby injury. I developed plantar fasciitis in my right foot early in the season. Like a lame-ass I hurt myself at practice — not even in the heat of a real match. Still, it hurts like a bitch, making walking difficult and running impossible at times — highly inconducive to a bipedal creatures such as myself, let alone rugby.

There are some real characters in a physical therapy office. And some ugly feet. I count myself lucky, having relatively clean, minorly caloused hooves. I apologized once, and the guy who gives me my deep-tissue foot massage every session said, “Heh heh heh … Dude, you have no-o-o-o idea.”

There was a woman at the office tonight who I had never seen before. And for our first meeting, I saw far more of her than I had ever hoped to. Far more than I wanted to. This is because the leggings she wore were so worn down in the inner and anterior thigh that square inches of bare skin were showing through. This was not like a run in a stocking or a transparent, threadbare t-shirt. This was years of thigh rubbing thigh and butt rubbing bicycle seat.

My first reaction was something like: “Um, I don’t need to see that!” [think Valerie Cherish] “But, well, I also don’t need to look. And clearly she doesn’t care. Unless she doesn’t know. But how could she not know?”

I mean, the updraft must have been mighty real.

I regarded her on a stationary bike, those gams of hers lifting up and pushing down, the exposed flesh quivering like something molded and thawing. It was mesmerizing. Like a car crash. Either she had very little self respect or a whole damn lot of it. I couldn’t decide. And my reaction had nothing to do with her age, which I guessed to be in the ballpark of 50. A younger woman would have looked no better.

I have a ratty old pair of shoes that I can’t seem to get rid of. They cost $4.50 at Payless, where I found them in the women’s section. (Women get such deals at that place! And all the men’s shoes are ugly and fall apart in a month.) These babies have lasted me three years. I keep them on principle. Plus, they’re super cute. Of course, they have holes through the soles. I can’t walk on a wet sidewalk without drenching my socks. And sometimes I keep underpants well past the sell-by date. But these things are covert and unknown to everyone but the drop-off laundry service lady. And she can judge me all she wants.

One of the assistants made some crack to the guy who was torturing my foot. He laughed quietly. I felt bad that she was being talked about, albeit quietly, just five yards away. But they weren’t being malicious. Just surprised and sort of startled. We all hoped she would just put some damn pants on. Or a skirt. Or a towel. I could have been a gentleman and offered my warm-up pants.

Nah.

Could you imagine accepting someone else’s pants at the gym?

Hmm… on second thought, that could be quite a pleasant thing.