My massage therapist has become bossy, as if she has the right to tell me how to live my life.
“Maybe you shouldn’t exercise so much.”
“I’m exercising an hour less per day now that my dog is dead and I can’t walk him.”
“Still, maybe you shouldn’t exercise so much at this stage in your recovery.”
She knows I bike all over town, to clients’ homes to work on their computers, to the gym for yoga and Pilates and swimming. And my living room is a mini-gym with my tramoline and free weights, and exercise video collection.
Then she happily told me about how she spent 4 hours the day before crawling around an the floor with her new ferret.
“That’s exercise,” I told he triumphantly.
“It’s not organized,” she said, as if she had me on a technical point.
“Who said exercise has to be organized?”
She gave up. Then she said, “I quit riding my bike because I can’t afford to be hurt.”
Okay, I thought. That’s one way to look at it. But before I could say anything, she started talking about the whiplash injury she got when her car was in an accident. She had a headache for 3 years. She had days when she couldn’t work. Even today, she has to be careful not to bounce or the headache will come back.
This time I decided there was no point in responding. If she can’t see that cars get in accidents too, I’m not going to tell her.
Her final bit of wisdom was to check out a Feldenkrais class at a gym near me. I called the gym and I'll be checking it out tomorrow.