Wally and Blondie

Yesterday, I had a physical therapy appointment. I’ve been going twice a week during my lunch hour in order to keep banking leave time. The therapist, Rita, does a great job massaging my calf. It was so great last time, I asked if she didn’t want to come live with us. She didn’t seem too keen on the idea. I did tell her I could bake her anything she wanted. Still didn’t sway her. Oh well. You gotta try.

Anyway. Yesterday, my foot hurt very little. I’d worn regular shoes – running shoes – while working Dakota over and taking a little walk. The right foot had done okay. I got a little pain, so I substituted Wally back in. I mentioned this to her when she wrapped my foot in a hot towel, covering the electrodes. Don’t worry. No electroshock here, just getting the nerve endings revved up or something.

Now, the $64,000 question.

“So…how much longer do I need to keep coming?” I asked from flat on my back, feet raised on a portable padded sloping thing.

Rita looked at my chart.

“Your pain is steadily decreasing. I’m going to put you on the black (elastic) band today. You don’t have to come back. Keep doing the exercises. I won’t formally discharge you, in case you need to return.”

Woot! I’ve been a bit confused in the whole process. No real direction or timeline or anything. Only funky exercises and icing. Euphoria swept through me.

“And what about running?” I guess that’s the $128,000 question.

“Ideally, you’d wait until you were pain-free. But you can start back once you can wear normal shoes all day.”

Yes! I did a mental fist pump. Thank you, Jesus! Buh-bye, Wally.

Suddenly, a teenaged boy came into the room. He wore shorts, a hoodie and a ski cap. Hey, it reached 60 degrees yesterday. He stood about 5’5″ from my estimate, slightly built with sandy hair sticking out and a few freckles. He said he had a football injury. He mentioned football a lot, and how he was missing camp due to his hurting foot.

Tim, the other therapist, took the kid on. Tim stands about 6′ tall, is probably in his late 20s or early 30s, and still skateboards. His laidback manner reminds me of surfers, minus the glazed eye look from getting rolled by one too many waves.

“Dude,” he said to the boy. “How’s it going? What have you been up to?”

Tim set the boy up the same way I was, feet propped up for massage. Tim rubbed his left foot while the boy recounted a visit to Black Lake. They both said Black Lake had nasty oil residue from boats. They debated the virtues of various other lakes in Washington, based on temperature and clarity.

I tuned out for a bit. But I heard music, something I recognized, playing in the background from one of the open laptops. That vocal hook…what was it? I couldn’t quite place it.

“How much do you weigh?” the boy asked Tim.

I smiled to myself. Really?!

Tim, easygoing to the core, said, “I’m at about 185.”

“I weigh 147,” the boy replied, quick as a wink.

Um. Pretty specific, kid. Must have just weighed this morning. How in the world did this come up? Women never talk about each other’s weight. Well, we never ask each other, anyway. It’s even worse than asking how old someone is. Am I right, ladies? It seemed odd. It felt like a challenge. “I could take you, old man! I’m stronger than I look!”

But the conversation went on.

“You weigh about right for your height,” the kid said. A consolation prize of sorts, perhaps.

“I could stand to shed a few pounds,” admitted honest Tim, looking at the ground.

And then they were laughing and onto something else.

The 60-something bespectacled lady lying next to me spoke up.

“There’s a lot of testosterone in the room,” she remarked.

Rita, the lady and I laughed.

Then I figured it out. It *was* Blondie on the Pandora list: “Heart of Glass”.

“Hey, is that Heart of Glass by Blondie? Sounds like a remix. Weren’t you guys playing Blondie a couple of appointments back?” I inquired. They had crafted an all-Blondie soundtrack, something I never considered as a possibility.

Both therapists admitted, rather sheepishly, that it was indeed Blondie. Folks, Blondie’s #1 fan club, and possibly only fan club, resides at the Foot and Ankle clinic. Thanks, people. I had the song in my head the rest of the day. “Ooo-ooo…who-a…” Now you can, too. Happy Friday!