I had my first physiotherapy appointment late on Friday afternoon, at a physiotherapy practice not far from home. Hey, sometimes the fates, Baby Jesus, the universe, whatever you want to call it, smiles upon you. Colour me shallow, but as it turns out I have the world's cutest physiotherapist.
Holy. Crap. You should see this guy. A bit taller than me, but still what could be defined as falling within 'pocket rocket' paramaters, well muscled without being bulky, handsome and with shortish blonde curly hair cut just so. And nice. And called Andrew.
Sadly I had to strip to shorts so it was strictly a one-way beautyfest. I don't know if he's a 'mo, but I assume he's probably not turned on by a bit of 43 year old paunch and some man-boobs. But who can presume, right? (That was optimism speaking.)
Anyhoo. He was very sweet and pleasant, and got right down there with his strong hands and adjusted my pelvis (which as it turns out was tilted slightly forwards and upwards on the right side, possibly from decades of sashaying and carrying my books on my hip). I have to go back for more appointments (score!) and have exercises to do. They also have proper Pilates machines and do classes of just 4 people plus the physiotherapist instructor, which I'll start once the worst of this sciatica flare up has subsided.
I figure I might just string this sciatica thing out for as long as possible.