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Show 15 One inch of progress, and my whole leg is protesting. Another inch and it grabs back again. Yet another inch. So slowly and with much reluctant jerking, my leg is finally straightened. "One," he counts, as if "two" were directly forthcoming. When "ten" is finally tallied, he moves around the bed to better access the other leg. As he rearranges the sheets and begins to grasp my other leg, I can see that he is sweating. He is breathing as though he has just completed a jog up a steep flight of stairs. "Ready?" he is asking me and I share that he is asking the wrong person. He is taking a deep breath, blowing out with pursed lips, and then resumes pushing his body against my other foot. "One," he is finally saying. Push. Jerk, jerk, jerk. I am the perfect piece of exercise equipment for a football team. "Two," and he pauses to catch his breath. Push. Jerk, jerk, jerk. Perhaps I could earn some Christmas money by charging aspiring strong people the privilege of maintaining my range of motion. |