Dear Physical Therapy Boy,
Yep, I’m seeing you for my herniated disc at the request of my MD. What I’d like you to know is that I can see your judgment a mile away. You are all of 30 and not very good yet at working through it (or hiding it for that matter.) To you, I am a chubby middle-aged queer lady who is struggling to lose a bit of weight. You write my injury off because of those characteristics. Well, what I’d like to say to you is this:
I may have a herniated disc. I may be 20# overweight. I may be 40. I may have a kid. And, your judgment of me is practically dripping out your eyes and it is disgusting. Do you think I didn’t notice that you spent my entire appointment time with the peppy young straight gal (a skier) while you had your assistant lead me in all my exercises? You get to bill for seeing me when all you effing did was ask me how I was this week? Yes, I get it. I know how this works. I am a chubby middle-aged queer lady and in your mind not an athlete so am therefore of no interest to. You make up stories about why I’m injured or what my capabilities are, rather than asking. I’d tell you if you asked. Don’t worry. I don’t take it personally.
But here is the thing you need to know frat boy. I will fucking SCHOOL you. I will TAKE you. Any day. Any time. Any way. You know why? Because I am a two-time IRONWOMAN sucker. I am 5 time marathoner. And I have drive, grit and determination of the likes you have never seen, much less felt. I could do it with my messed up back, with my newly healed wrist and my out of shape body. So, get your shit together little boy.
In appreciation of electric stimulation & ice,