This morning, i was huffing and puffing on the human hampster wheel sandwiched between two strapping gay guys who looked more like they were on the stairway to heaven. On my iPod was Steve Martin’s “Shopgirl,” filling me with drab thoughts about body image LA culture while the tele ran commercials to the daytime TV crowd about products that would help you lose weight, have beautiful skin and be happy all day long. I sighed.
And then, stumbling aimlessly around the gym looking for some way that i could remedy my back ache by working on my pecks without further injuring my elbow, i started realizing that maybe there is something good to be said about all of the psycho image culture. Maybe these body sculptors will devise tools so that i can work on individual muscle zones without further damaging the other broken ones. This week alone, i’ve added my left elbow to my wrists, neck and right knee… so now my shoulders are starting to curl over, numbing my left arm and sending shooty gifts down my left side. Lovely. Perhaps i should worship the body sculptors and pray that they will invent a magical potion to build muscle to the exact level that will support my frame so that things don’t keep falling out of whack.
And then, on cue, Barenaked Ladies came into my thoughts and i started dreaming about being uber wealthy and having real health care and having a brilliant physical therapist who would know exactly how to deal with each muscle system so that i could function even while broken as hell. Ah, dreams…
(How sad is it that my fantasy of being uber rich involves doctors and health care? And yes, i’m procrastinating writing my &%*@ quals.)