As she regarded my labouring self with her sippy cup of double shot decaf soy wellness latte, the physio looked faintly disgusted. “Face the front,” she said, pointing in a direction of the room that looked uncannily like Just Another Wall. “Not that front – this front,” she barked, before remembering that a “holistic” approach to women’s health included pretending to be nice to a certain directionally challenged, inflexible-in-every-sense-of-the-word client.
After a couple more rounds of “put your feet in these stirrups, lift your hips, try to relax, engage your core”, I wasn’t sure whether to ask whether to ask for my gynaecological results or an assessment on my left ankle, which I had accidentally smashed against another stupid machine in my haste to flee, never to return.
All of which brings us, inevitably, to the stationary bike that I caved in and bought when it became apparent that no amount of freshly juiced positive vibes were going to turn me into a person able to discern where the front of the studio was while her legs were entangled in Pilates stirrups.
It’s been about a month and it’s fair to say the throbbing in my knee has largely migrated to my brain. I hate the bike passionately. The seat hurts, the spandex pulls and the dinky little in-built fan wouldn’t cool a passing dust mote. And don’t even get me started on the online personal trainer and his hooray-it’s-time-for-more-punishment schtick. Here’s the curious thing, though. The more I pedal, the angrier I get. The angrier I get, the faster I go. And all of a sudden, the thought of three minutes in an enclosed space with my personal trainer doesn’t seem as diabolical as it once did.
Hell, maybe we can bring in my husband, since he totally created this mess in the first place. Saddle up, baby, I whisper malevolently, it’s time for us to enter the pain cave. For the next three minutes, it’s survival of the fittest. Literally.
