If I wasn’t alone in my bedroom, I would grumble that physical therapy makes me think of futility. I plod my feet on my peeling yoga mat. In each hand, I grip the exercise band and pull until the band is a taut swath of lime green. My nose twitches at the synthetic smell of rubber, as unnatural as the band’s color.
As I draw my fists from each other, my left collarbone gripes. My right shoulder blade grinds as it slots into its proper place. My wrists click, my elbow clacks. And something near my sternum twinges. I worry my body is unbolting itself ahead of schedule.
I stretch the band again, and this time, the strain in my neck dissolves into soothing warmth. As I watch the lime green band tense and slacken, I question my chipmunk-like impulse to burrow away from pain. With more reps, the aches in my back wane, smidgen by smidgen. Perhaps the gears of my body need some wear and tear to mend.
Two more sets, and the muscles across my chest unbind themselves. I hold for a bit longer, gaze into the mirror, and watch myself marvel at my wingspan.
