This shirt was another seat-back cover for a while, but I rescued it before it had attained macrame status. A good thing, as the clever saying is on the rear.
I picked it up at a massage convention in 1998, where I also sprung for some Jacknobbers, a couple of books on hand care, and a continuing-education course on massage for breast cancer patients that I could have taught more competently than the instructor. That was the beginning of my resolution to take low-priced mail order courses that didn’t fuck up my life and make my fingers itch to get around someone’s neck. I can still remember that useless blatherer telling us all about everything except what to do for a person lying on your table who’s had a mastectomy, saline implant, lumpectomy or soft tissue reconstruction, all of which I’d already confronted by that time. My field is way too full of bullshitters.
Anyway, your piriformis is nowhere near your breasts. You will find it deep in your butt cheeks, at any hour of the day or night. Runners who have a sore ass all think they have “piriformis syndrome,” which is the only cause most sports medicine doctors recognize for a pain in the ass, even though you have also got the gluteus maximus and minimus, two obturator muscles, two gemelli, and the ever wonderful quadratus femoris back there, the last a dab hand at squishing your sciatic nerve, which I know because I tore mine once; and then of course we get into the people who think any pain in their asses is something called “sciatica,” which they really couldn’t define.
But it is good to know where it all is anyway.