Long time between blog posts, dear readers. Soz about that, I am aware that some people actually care!
I have been feeling particularly uninspired to write lately (there’s no footy on, after all), but then on Monday something so hideous occurred that I had to put finger to keyboard. Here goes.
DISCLAIMER: MUM AND DAD – I know you are two of Chops At Home’s most committed readers. The following will gross you out. I suggest you read someone else’s daughter’s blog today.
A while ago, I hurt my hip while running. I know what you’re thinking, everyone. Chopsy, you are not a jock! You barely do anything physical beyond walking to the shops, because you love TV and reading and sitting around in cafes so much, you turd. But it’s true, readers. Last year I was running around Princes Park one night after work and I felt my hip do something weird and the next day I could not walk or sit or lie down or whatever.
At the time, I had some physio and x-rays and went to a sports doctor and all this other boring, expensive, ineffectual stuff. I discovered that there was nothing deeply wrong with me but that they couldn’t really fix it. The pain subsided, and I got on with it, except for the fact that I couldn’t comfortably return to running. Every time I tried, I would end up hurting the hip again, and the weird contortions my body would do resulted in some awesome lower back pain. This made me groan like an old person and exercise uncharacteristic gratitude that presently I don’t know of anyone who wants to do it with me. Bummer.
Anyway whatever, a couple weeks ago I went for a run one night and hurt my hip/back REAL BAD. A friend of mine has been saying to me for ages ‘Chopsy, go to an osteopath’ and as I am now a mature adult/possessor of private health insurance, I decided to give osteopathy a go.
The osteo was a lovely friendly bloke who suggested Pilates, a new handbag and some pelvic floor exercises to strengthen my core. It was basically like having a consultation with the sealed section of a 1997 issue of Cosmopolitan, but whatever. Who am I to doubt the advice of a professional?!
This week I went for my Pilates assessment and it was more embarrassing than the time I had a massage and when the lady asked if I needed any disposable underwear, I replied ‘oh no thanks, I BYO.’
The Pilates Assessment was with a physiotherapist who was bizarrely attractive. He had a man-bun hairstyle, which I usually find despicable, and was in no way my type, but had some strange and inexplicable allure. He gave me a pelvic ultrasound to show me how to correctly contract the core muscles so that I could properly learn how to support my back.
Here are three conversational standouts from this ultrasound.
Physio: This is the six-pack muscle.
Me: Well, theoretically.
Physio: Oh no it’s definitely there. Underneath that (*gesticulates*) stuff.
Physio: OK, so I am going to teach you to do some exercises. To explain it, it might sound a little awkward or funny, but bear with me.
Me: (smugly) it’s ok, I can handle it.
Physio: OK, so make a contraction like you’re trying to stop peeing mid-stream.
By this stage I am thinking LOL dude I am a mature adult I don’t laugh at words like ‘pee!’
Physio: OK, next one. Try to pull your anus in towards your vagina.
Me: (dies laughing) BUT WHY WOULD I DO THAT?!?!?
Physio: Do you need to go to the bathroom?
Me: Um, nah. I’m cool.
Physio: It’s just that I can see that your bladder is REALLY full.
Gross me the fuck out, guys. Love you. Merry Christmas.