And this time it wasn’t by my kids! Oh My God, I can barely walk today! Exercise is overrated, just completely fucking overrated, I swear!!! There I was, a totally normal functioning, semi-in shape individual, and I just haaaaad to go and mess with things and take a circuit training class… focusing on legs. Today, I’m crippled with muscle pain. I mean, WTF, were my leg muscles on the brink of atrophy before this? Was I like one more leftover halloween candy away from having diabetic sores and needing a cane? Good God!
I’ve been off the wagon regarding exercise for the past couple of, ehem, weeks, ya, let’s say weeks, due to my shoulder issue, and my overuse of the excuse of my shoulder issue. The short of it is that when Charlie was a few months old, crying in his car seat while we sat in typical horrendous Southern California traffic, I reached back awkwardly from the driver seat to shove a bottle in his mouth, and in the process, I apparently popped my bicep tendon out of it’s proper resting place in my shoulder. Seriously? Reaching back in the car? What an f’ing boring and stupid mom kind of way to get injured. And I figure if it were to have happened now, it would be from flailing my arm toward the backseat in hopes of making contact with a sassy, obnoxious little shit (those seat belts really keep them pulled back there). I guess I’m thankful I didn’t do it while hanging off a stripper pole or something, but hell, that would have been a more thrilling story…”so there I was, hanging upside down on the pole, having hundred dollar bills thrown at me, when…”
I finally went to see a specialist a few months ago, who told me I have Bicep Tendon Subluxation. I wrote it down after the fifteenth time I asked him to “remind me what it’s called again”. He left the room and the nurse kindly translated everything into Stupid so I could understand. I have to have a little surgery in the mud season of Spring, so as not to miss ski season…obviously! In the meantime, I’ve been lightly exercising.
Truth: My measly 20 minutes of at-home-yoga a couple days a week, and doing squats and lunges during the two minutes that I brush my teeth wasn’t really getting it done. And god forbid I picked up the pace during a jog, I couldn’t possibly. So, as I became more aware of the gravity of the situation, literally the affect of gravity on my situation, I decided to kick it up a notch and hit a circuit class with a couple friends. It was 60 minutes of burning lungs and shaking legs. The few words I had the breath to say, were simple four letter expletives directed at the sadistic coach who I actually paid to inflict this pain, and the two friends who were getting through it with a hell of a lot less effort than me. I whispered Fuck You’s to them as we passed each other from running suicides, to side steps with resistance bands, to jump lunges, and weighted squats.
I left feeling simultaneously humbled, discouraged, motivated, proud, energized and exhausted. I walked around the rest of the day with phantom legs, like they weren’t really there, or if they were they were suddenly going to be like, “ya, this job of holding you up, isn’t really gonna work for me anymore,” and my entire torso would come crashing to the ground as my legs dumped me like a bad boyfriend. I imagined people talking about the cause of my newly legless handicap state, “I know, right? It’s the weirdest thing, her legs just took off! I mean, I guess it makes sense, clearly she was asking too much of them in her flabby state. Putting them through that abuse. All those squats! and with a kettle ball and everything! So silly, she just haaaad to make them exercise. Idiot.”
The next day was worse, they hurt to the touch. Russ thought this was hilarious and kept offering to ‘gently massage them’. Torture. I whimpered like I had been beaten with a baseball bat and left in a ditch. I walked around bow legged, like I just got off a horse from an all day gallop, or just gave birth to a 12 pound baby in a rice paddy. Day three was the pinnacle of pain. I cried a little every time I had to lower myself to or lift myself from a seated position. I went ahead and drank my wine right there on the toilet, in order to save myself all the up and down. I didn’t get up until the bottle was gone and my legs were numb. I hung onto the railing going down the stairs, down is the worst! I wished we lived in a Ranch Style house, or we had one of those motorized seats that take you up and down the stairs, or a 3D printer to make me some new legs.
Today, I’m almost back to normal, stretching without tears, with just a slight hitch in my giddy-up. My confidence is resurfacing to help convince me that the worst is over and the next time we do legs, it won’t be nearly that bad. My single joyous thought is the delusion that my legs look as taut and firm as they feel! I imagine my legs and ass like one of those ridiculous women strutting around the perimeter of a Vegas pool in clear plastic stripper heels, wearing a bathing suit that flosses her ass and isn’t meant to get wet, and getting death stares from all the ‘normal’ women in full-butt Target bathing suits and coverups, and Havaiana flip flops, sitting on lawn chairs, with like ten extra towels, drinking Skinny Margaritas.
And this guy, I feel like this guy for sure.
Next up…arms. And when it’s done, I better be able to at least hold a wine glass or I’m Fuuuuuu*&#d!