All Ironed Out

For starters, you should know that I'll never again use the term "iron out the details" in a conversation.  It's not because I loathe ironing almost as much as touching wet silver ware*.  It's simply for the fact that I now know how the details must feel... and being ironed is an awkward experience.  This is especially the case when you are not expecting to be ironed, but find yourself being ironed anyway.

I digress.  Remember how the doctor told me that I had all these horrible things going on that made no sense to anyone? Yeah, well, Dr. H also sent in a referral for physical therapy for my shoulders and neck... since when I do something I do it really well (falling down an icy driveway included... batteries sold separately).  

Since the referral became active, I got a call from a PT place and scheduled my first appointment.  This appointment was last week.  I excitedly got ready, got lost on the way to the office, finally found the office, waited for the appointment, and then was taken back into a tiny little room to wait for the doctor.  It is here that I will tell you that the room itself was terrifying.  There were machines I'd never seen before, weird towels laying on top of other machines, and a gross pan with bloody gauze still in it from someone else. 

Gross, right?!?  I almost got up and left, but a woman came in and cleaned up the room real quick and I couldn't remember the way back to the lobby.  Then, the doctor came in and asked me questions.  At least, I think he asked me some questions, because his eyebrows were raised and the ends of his words went up in pitch.  I couldn't understand a darn thing he said, but he messed around with my shoulders and arms and, at this point, I was so intrigued as to how the heck anything was going to get accomplished that I wanted to see it through to the end.  

The doctor showed me a gown, pointed to my shirt, said some things I could only interpret to mean "change out of that shirt and into this gown now, Princess"**, and then left the room.  So, I changed and waited.  A woman came in and told me to lay, face down, on a table and proceeded to become my new BFF as she gave me a half hour massage. After the massage, she left and the doctor came in.  This is when it all went... interestingly weird.

The doctor said some things I could only understand as "lay back down and I will now do something else you won't ever understand... and I will laugh at it later" and then pushed my head into the table.  He pushed on my spine a lot, put a hot towel on my back, and then he ironed me.

That's right.  I said it.  He ironed me.  He took some weird triangular shaped thing and moved it all along my back as if I were one of my husband's uniforms.  As I lay there, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to be feeling or thinking while being ironed, I did what I always do in awkward situations... I made horrible jokes.

At this point, I became extremely glad the doctor and I didn't understand each other at all.  Not only did I laugh hysterically while he ironed me, but I told him to iron my stomach next, because that could use to be a bit flatter.   Something else was said about ironing my bottom so I can fit into cuter jeans, but I forget everything I said to him.  I'm sure, someday, I'll find out that he completely understood me and die from mortification... but for now I'm going to just be extremely glad he didn't know English. 

Later that night, as I told my husband (and anyone else who would listen) about being ironed, I thought that maybe it was a first day thing and the next appointments would have more exercise filling up the time.  There's no way they'd have time to iron me again... and I'm really not that wrinkly yet.

Wrong.  Ironing is an every appointment thing.  Except, now, the iron also vibrates.  So, I lay there and laugh hysterically and inappropriately while he irons... feeling like a household chore.

And this is why, details, you are safe from me ever ironing you out.  There's enough ironing going on in my life.  Though, 20 visits to get a massage for half an hour is not too shabby.  Not too shabby at all.

* Wet silverware is the worst feeling in the entire world.  I cannot explain how high the ick-factor level gets when I touch wet silverware.  I know it's weird, but I'd rather pet a porcupine.  Especially if it's one of those tiny ones that are so adorable and make little noises when you touch their belly.  And now my husband is going to have to get me a pet baby porcupine.  Name ideas are welcome.

** Hey- It's my interpretation.  And if I'm going to interpret what the crazy doctor who irons people for a living is saying, he's definitely going to be calling me Princess.  My Grandpa would definitely agree!