Jul 19, 2012|
Wow, this is awkward. I think I’m in love with my editor’s husband. His name is Malcolm Minns and he is dreamy. This is him. Look at those twinkling eyes, that sheepish grin, those cheekbones. Can you say dreamboat?
I should stop. I’m gushing. This column is called The Straight Man. Stop. This is getting weird. But I must go on.
I can’t help it. Malcolm is my physiotherapist. He works at Bryne, Hickman & Partners, which despite sounding like an evil law firm is actually a physio and sports injury center with a hilariously bad website and good staff. Like Malcolm (OMG!). Send him fan mail. Or cupcakes from the recent cupcake craze. If you’re a hot girl, walk right up to him and give him a [editor’s note: polite thank you and tell him to come and see his wife]. Hey, stop that!
See, I dislocated my shoulder (you can read about it here: tiny.cc/dislocated, or if you’re reading the physical HK Mag copy you can probably find the article in the old magazine on your bathroom floor next to a used pregnancy test and your crushed dreams) and was in a sling for three weeks. And last week I finally got it off and tried to high-five the doctor but instead screamed in massive pain. See, when you keep your shoulder rigid for weeks it becomes stiff and painful, which is the same reason French people grunt when they remove a cigarette from their mouths.
So the doc referred me to Malcolm, who is married to my editor, Sarah Fung. That’s her. I mean, she’s no me, but she does have a working shoulder. And a larger chest, though probably not for long at the rate I’ve been gaining weight since I can’t exercise. (A note to readers: this is called a “fishing for compliments” column so feel free to send me fan mail about how I’m beautiful, or the normal “your column sucks it’s just about drinking” note.) Malcolm told me to lift my arm up and down slowly, spin it in circles and rock it like I was holding a baby. I felt, in a word, stupid. And in pain. What was this going to do to make me better?
Then slowly, my arm moved one more inch then it could before, then another. Granted I could only lift it past my belly button but Malcolm congratulated me like you congratulate a gold digger on bagging a billionaire. I felt great. OK, actually I felt terrible but I felt much better relatively because I could move my arm a little more than before. Baby steps and all that. And the whole time he had a smile on his face.
“So this is your job?” I asked. “You have to deal with people like me nine to 14 times a day and have a smile on your face even if they suck and are terrible?” “Yes,” he said with a big smile on his face. I thought about that and suddenly felt very insecure. “You’re doing a great job!” Malcolm said. I felt great again! My shoulder was in massive pain! What the hell was going on?
Malcolm brought out a machine. “This is for ultrasound,” he said. “I’m not pregnant,” I said. “Perhaps you’re confused?” But he explained that ultrasound can be used to help fix the stuff inside your shoulder, and it’s ultrasound imaging that’s used to find the baby growing in your stomach, dear reader. But he did have to get that weird gel and rub it on me.
And that’s when I decided: any man who’s willing to slather an ultrasound machine in gel and rub it on another man’s body to fix him is deserving of my love. So bro-hug. Love you, man. And I’ll resist that straight temptation to say, "I’m not gay, not that there’s anything wrong with that." Suck it, Sarah, Malcolm is mine—at least during business consultation hours from 12:50-1:40pm on Wednesdays and Fridays.
Yalun Tu is a columnist for HK Magazine. You can reach him at firstname.lastname@example.org or @yaluntu on Twitter.