So I am just starting to come down from a terrible flare-up that took me out pretty seriously for a few weeks. Pain in every joint, exhaustion, waking up feeling like I had recently been hit by a truck... you know. All that good stuff.
Some idiot booked me a 9:30 AM appointment with my physical therapist on my precious sleep-in day of the week. Oh, yeah. I did. That was me.
The PT didn't get on my case about my clams, which is great. I was dreading that. He gave me another resistance band and told me to up the ante on them, though. He grumbled at my doctor's lack of a definitive diagnosis for my rheumatism (dude, really? You are preaching to the choir, here) and then spent some time stretching the business around my kneecaps (which I am now supposed to attempt at home every day, he suggested I make my husband help) which was strange and a little painful. It was pretty okay, though, and at least he had strong warm hands. My own hands are always freezing. In the Winter time I reflexively try to cram my hands in to the warmest thing I can find. Usually my husband's shirt. I am pretty sure it's grounds for divorce! Right there after "irreconcilable differences" and "incurable insanity of spouse".