My Destroyer

Most of you know the history of my shoulder. For those of you that don't it pretty much goes as follows:
1997 - Ow
1999 - Ow
2003 - Ow
2003-2006 - click click click click
2006 - Ow
2006+ - Click flop spriong ting click click squish click

...you get the picture. And it has been kind of semi-useless since time immemorial.

Now, I decided that, given I'm overcompensating for it & my back is starting to do strange things & I'm certainly not getting any bloody younger, I would actually do what I should have done all along & I went to see a physio. He was unreal. He hurt me. He hurt me so much, but afterwards I felt as if my shoulder was almost like a proper shoulder again. Amazing.

He gave me a follow up appointment, a bunch of exercises & a little massage ball. Sweet.

The massage ball however. Holy freakin flying Jesus on rollerskates, the massage ball. This little bastard of a thing is the most horrific object I've ever touched in my life. I am really, really not one for massages. At the same time as being a bit of a wuss I am super ticklish so I get a double whammy of dontfuggintouchme!!!! Every time a masseuse comes anywhere near me. Even in Thailand, the lady was all 'ha ha ha, white wussy man', until she started getting genuinely pissed off because I could hardly stand her touching my damned neck.

Anyway, the reason for this nearly pointless post is the brutal (gentle) agony (massage) that this freaking ball assails my shoulders with when I use it. The trick is to lean up against a wall with this spiny horror lodged under your shoulder blade & then work it like a kodiak bear against a maple tree on a hot day. My big issue is I didn't think I would feel much. So I get this ball, wedge that shit under my 'bladez & then go to work. The walls in my place are pretty much all plaster & paint like a normal hourse, but in the kitchen it's tiles. Bonza. No potential markings. No stress that I've only got about two feet of clearance, this is a massage, not a rock concert. Down, right, up, lefaaaaaaack! The thing hit the far right side of my shoulder blade & some kind of instantaneous message flew into my brain that said KICKYOURCUPBOARDFALLOVERSHITYOURSELFSQUEALLIKEAGIIIIIIIRL!!!!

So fortunately I didn't shit myself, but the rest...yeah, I pretty much did that. Lying in the yoga-favourite "prone, bruised pretzel saluting the fridge door" pose, I thought:
Note to self...mind that you brace for the whole nerve ending thing.

Good. I'll remember that.

Behold, my destroyer: