A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Recovery

Physical therapy at home is part of my recovery process. My physical therapist came to my home for the first time this last Monday. Her name is Laura. She is quite competent, making me hurt appropriately. "No pain, no gain," the adage goes. But Laura is also 25, blond and cute. Obviously, she looks nothing like the therapist on the right.

It is Laura's job to explain the exercises I need to do twice a day to recover from my hip surgery and learn to walk properly again. Half of those exercises I do steadying myself on my walker. The rest I am to do laying flat in bed. Are you getting the picture? There we were, she teaching, I practicing, flat on my bed (she was standing up), when the doorbell rings. The church graciously provides a meal a day for me. Well, just when we were in our practice position, that day's deliverer chose to deliver. I think you call that Murphy's Law or Satan's scheme. Your choice.

For propriety's sake, I had left the front door open. The deliverer, whose name is Doug, could see through the storm door all the way down the hall to the back of our house where my bedroom door is. When the doorbell rang, I froze, not only at the thought, but at the pain it would take to get off the bed and hobble down the hall to door. I think Laura froze too. She asked, "Do you want me to get that?" I pondered for a moment, sharing my thoughts with Laura: "I don't know what they'll think when a good-looking woman comes out of my bedroom." It was tempting to hide. But having nothing to hide, I told her she better answer the door.

She did. I would give anything to have seen Doug's eyes as she made the long walk down the hall to the door. Maybe like saucers? Her words as she approached Doug were: "Hi, I'm Laura, the physical therapist." "OH!" Doug exclaimed a little too loudly to hide his shock. "This is Tom's lunch," he declared, and with nary another word that I could hear from my prone position, left with haste. Laura never said another word about it.

I write this to explain to Doug and any other would be deliverers of extremely fine quisine, that should you see a 25 year-old, blond, attractive female in my home, ask if her name is Laura. If she answers "Yes," don't worry. If she answers, "Bethany," don't worry either. That would be my daughter, though I am not expecting her here in Moriarty any time soon. If she answers anything else, call the cops!