Pat Me on the Back

I had my second session of physical therapy today.  As I’ve whined about a zillion times by now, I shattered my radius when, while playing Pickleball, I ran into the net and gracefully bounced back, had my feet slip out from under me, and landed on the least cushiest part of my body, my left wrist.  My friend Sheri, who works at the Y in Lawrenceville, gleefully told me a few weeks ago that they are now offering Pickleball at the Y if you want to try it yourself.

 Anyhoo, at the first PT session, the therapist measured all the ways my fingers and wrist could (and could not) bend.  This morning, I came in fairly certain that not much had changed in the past four days.  After a ‘who’s on first’ type conversation that went something like this: “It’s your left wrist, right?” “Right.” “Your right wrist?” “No, my left wrist.”  “Left?” “Right.” I got to stick my hand in this odd contraption that blows hot air and ground up corn husks all over my hand and wrist while I make figure eight motions.  I love this thing.  It is warm and toasty and comfortable, so much so that even though I don’t and will never smoke, I kinda want a cigarette afterwards.  The only problem with it is that afterwards for about an hour I am picking out what feels like grits from under my fingernails.

 Then came the measuring.  To my happy surprise, I had improved quite a bit, and the therapist complimented me on the obvious ‘homework’ I had done throughout the week.

 This made me unreasonably happy. I am a 43 year old woman who has one and a half successful careers at the moment, two children who just might be the most perfect beings on the planet, and I get my biggest thrill of the day from being told by someone I am paying for services that I did well.

 This is typical of me.  Most people dread going to the dentist.  Not me.  Nope.  I brush and floss like a good girl, cannot bear the feeling of the fuzzy plaque that builds up around my gums, and haven’t had a cavity in so long that I couldn’t tell you when it was.  Definitely not since my kids were born, and my eldest is 12.  Every time I go to the dentist, I get a metaphorical pat on the head for actually flossing.  (Without having any access to real data, I would have to say that only 1 out of 100 people actually floss with any kind of regularity.)  I get a surge of pride when told I have no cavities.  I have an urge to call my mother and tell her so she can praise me, too.  Curiously, I get almost more pride from these things than I get from victories in the Courtroom, but not as much as when my children do anything even remotely clever.

 I don’t know why this is.  I like pleasing authority figures.  Even though I know better now, I still have this desire to believe that all authority figures got there because they are knowledgeable and good at their craft (as opposed to being well connected or in the right place at the right time.)  Therefore, they are (theoretically) better than me at whatever they are doing because otherwise I wouldn’t need them to do it.  I know this is true with both the physical therapist/hand specialist and my dentist.  I have no idea how to do either one of those things. 

 So, and this should surprise no one who has ever met me, what we’ve established here is my nerd credentials.  I like being the teacher’s pet.  If you are teaching me how to do something, or evaluating my work product, I like to be told I’ve done a good job.  Don’t we all?  I might just be a little more extreme than other people.  I say things from time to time like, “Aren’t you proud of me?  I remembered to bring my files home from the office.”  So if you see me in the near future, don’t be afraid to scratch me behind the ears and give me a treat like the good dog that I am.  I will reward you by wagging my tail.

 Lori B. Duff is the author of the Amazon ‘Hot New Release’ Mismatched Shoes and Upside Down Pizza, a collection of autobiographical humor essays.