Kinda like a piece of meat

I had a massage the other day (yes, it was lovely, thank you so much for asking.) I told the massage therapist that my hamstring was still bugging me (which it is, and at this point, I'm beginning to think it always will), and so she said she'd see if she could find some trigger points to release some of the tension, or pain.

When she got around to my hamstring, I told her where the pain was, and well, let's be real, the hamstring originates (or inserts, I can't remember which) on the ischial tuberosity, which is, to be plain, your butt. The medial side of your butt, to be exact, which means that massaging it (or diagnosing the tendonitis) means you get pretty close to, well, parts that not everybody gets to be up close and personal with.

This therapist asked permission to massage me there.

I was a little surprised she asked my permission. It was something new. Seriously, hardly any doctor asks permission if he can poke and prod, and frankly, it never occurred to me that they should have to. Which says less about them and more about me.

It means I've officially accepted the idea that I am a piece of meat.

Don't get me wrong, I don't mean to imply that I have ever been mistreated by a medical professional. That has never been the case. By and large, I think doctors are competent professionals who care about what they do and the people they treat. I've seen some loser doctors in my time, for sure, but as a patient, I have been (mostly) treated with the utmost respect.

That said, my body seems to be fair game a lot of the time, and I've been more than one doctor's educational patient for the day.

And that's okay. It comes with the territory. I totally get it.

But it was nice to be reminded, just for a second, that I am more than the sum parts of my kidneys.