P.T.

After a long weekend of oxycodone induced serenity, I was not ready for Monday morning. I knew it was coming, the doctor had scheduled me right away for physical therapy. I mean it's right there in the name, 'physical', I should have known. I guess I kind of expected that I would be made to try and walk around on my repaired knee, get a little massage, and go home. Instead I walked into a room full of large, broad shouldered women who immediately started ordering me around. Most of all they wanted me to move my leg and knee back and forth in a way that seemed to me to be unnatural.
"I want to see you bend that back more than a hundred degrees!", a nice lady named Fiona barked.
The truth is that never in my life have I been able to bend my leg back that far. For forty five minutes my leg was twisted and turned, lifted and dropped, and then finally bent back as far as it could.
"Ninety nine degrees, c'mon Alan, you can do better...", and with that Fiona ordered me to try again, urging me on like I was some kind of slacker. Finally, with one last gasp, I moved my leg back one hundred and two degrees.
"Good boy Alan."
Like Chandler, I was ready for my treat for being a 'good boy'. But there was no treat, just instructions to do more exercises at home, and a date to be tortured again on Thursday.