I’m injured. No really, I am.
I know my mother doesn’t believe me because when I was younger I was always the little girl who cried wolf. But a few months ago I sustained a running injury to the leg.
And by leg, I mean glute, and by glute I mean, my ass.
After two months of persistent pain while exercising, I decided enough was enough and made an appointment at a popular PT clinic in my neighborhood. They had rave reviews on Yelp and were located less than a mile from my apartment, so it seemed like a good fit.
I arrived at the office a little frantic and sweaty (because, let’s face it, that’s how I arrive most places) and quickly filled out the requisite forms.
As I signed on the dotted line, cutie boy doctor entered the waiting room. He called my name and I looked up, startled. Um. Yes please.
He led me back to his nook, made up the table with clean sheets (I love a man who can make a bed) and started peppering me with questions about my leg. He was kind, patient, and sympathetic. Oh, and his eyes just happened to be the color of the ocean on a stormy day.
After a few minutes of questions and general chit chat, he asked me to lie down on the table so we could go through a series of stretches. I hopped up happily and made myself comfortable.
We went though a few moves, tested out my hip flexibility, and then he started kneading my hamstrings, quads, and glutes. Translation: I was getting a butt rub from my very own Dr. McDreamy. He ordered me to relax and proceeded to dig his thumbs in deeper. Ahhh. Bliss.
I think I was drooling a little by the time sexy doctor told me to turn over so we could attempt the stretches a second time.
The next round of exercises felt nice but paled in comparison to the massage. I kept dropping hints that the stretches didn’t feel like they were doing much, but BOY OH BOY that massage sure did feel like it was an effective remedy for my condition.
He took the hint.
Twenty heavenly minutes of butt kneading later and strict instructions from him to “self-massage as much as possible at home” (seriously, it took everything in me not to smirk…), I pranced out of his office one very happy lady.
Up front, I paid the bill feeling like I was in on a secret that no one else was aware of. Instead of paying $180 + tip for 45 minutes of underwhelming Swedish massage with a mustached masseuse named Olga, I merely had a $20 copay for an hour of intense booty rubbing by hot Dr. W.