‘The receptionist says, ‘Peter will be out with you soon.’ I smile and think, Peter? Peter better be a girl. Don’t panic. He says, ‘Laura?’ Real slowly. I sigh and say, ‘Yep that’s me.’ FML.’

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“After a long time trying to fix my muscle separation with awkward poses watching YouTube while my kids sit on my head, I decided it was time to take matters into my own hands and go see a Physiotherapist.

I blind booked online at a place far away from my house on their online system because apparently, they’re the best at fixing that stuff and I thought, why not.

I arrived after work waiting for my appointment and because you’re semi naked I made sure I shaved my legs and my underarms, plucked my chin hair… all of that. I assumed I was going to get a female because who better to fix female problems than females? (Yeah, I’m probably sexist right now… deal with it.)

And you know… I never get pimples on my back. Never… but occasionally my body says, ‘Hey, remember what it’s like to be 14? Well here’s an eruption for you and I got a real big juicy one right in the middle of my back.’ I asked my husband to squeeze it, but he was disgusted at the thought, so really, I blame him… anyway sidetracked…so I went to my appointment with a mountain on my back. I wait and I’m thinking about how I resemble the Hunchback of Notre Dame or whatever it is, and I think it’s all good because, she’s a woman, she will get it.

The receptionist says, ‘Peter will be out with you soon.’

I smile and think, Peter?? Peter better be a girl… anyway, don’t panic… it could be Peta, and her parents secretly hoped for a boy you know, so she got that name. Anyway…

I want to say firstly; my husband is the hottest man ever in the world. Ever. Okay…? Ever. You got that? Ever.

But guess what guys? So, is the physiotherapist who walks out and calls my name and says, ‘Laura?’

I’m thinking, ‘No no no No. NO.’ I don’t respond because no. My body is not ready for this. I didn’t pluck those stray hairs on my stomach. No.

He says, ‘Laura???’ Real slowly. I sigh and say, ‘Yep that’s me.’ FML.

We go in and I talk about how my stomach is separated and he says, ‘Let’s take a look…’ I lay down and he begins feeling stuff and says, ‘Yeah it’s 3 cms,’ and the good news is he can fix it and blah blah blah – I tune out because I think, ‘Oh thank Christ he hasn’t really looked at my gut… he was looking at me…’ and then he says, ‘Oh it says here that you also were having shoulder pain.’

Die. Death.

‘No… it’s fine now,’ I said, thinking about the monstrosity on my back.

And he says, ‘Well it might feel fine now, but those things can come back and be a real pain.’

Of course they can Peter, just like puberty. So, I lay on my hairy stomach with my top off and he starts poking my back. Probably concerned about that growth on my back. He asks if he can remove my bra, I think, at least buy me dinner first… but I just muffle ‘sure…’ and I’m all sweaty because you know anxiety and I am a nervous sweater. Not sweaty… but sweaty. Clammy… more like clammy. Anyway, sidetracked again.

And he massages my back and I feel his nails go slightly into my back. And then I feel his hand/claws run over that pimple…

I’m lying there quietly but thinking internally, ‘FAAAAAAARRRKKKK!’ Anyway he slowly winds up and starts wiping his magic physio cream off my back (that isn’t code word for anything else lol) and takes special care to rub, no, really rub that pimple spot.

Sigh. He says next week we will do exercises. I’m thinking, ‘yeah, I can’t come back to you again. I’m sorry Peter… you were meant to be a woman. And I wasn’t meant to offer you an extra friend on my back for this appointment.’

As I’m leaving, he says, ‘We do Pilates on Wednesday, you should book in. It’s really helpful.’

And I’m thinking, ‘I’m not reliving any of that again, thanks mate.’

So, I basically throw money at the receptionist to get out of there and she asks me if I’d like to re-book and I said, ‘Oh shoot, don’t have my calendar here so I’ll just call.’ (don’t even own a calendar).

And I’ll never call because I can never see Peter and his pectorals again. EVER.

I go home, and my husband says, ‘How did it go?’ I respond with, ‘good’ and I ask him, ‘Is my pimple still on my back?’

And he looks and he says, ‘Yeah… but did you pop it???’

KILL. ME.”

This story was submitted to Love What Matters by Laura Mazza of Mum on the Run, where it originally appeared. Submit your story here, and subscribe to our best love stories here.

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