Monday, Mar. 15, 2004
I sprang out of bed this morning with all the nimble grace of a gymnast. An arthritic, 80-year-old gymnast, that is.
Sprang? Did I say sprang? I misspoke myself. I meant to say shuffle.
This is the worst part of aging. When I was a zygote I could push my body like I did yesterday and while it would be sore, it would not be down-to-the-bone sore. Now when it's time to pay the piper for going over the line, the piper does not take VISA. No, the piper demands payment Right This Very Moment in a huge, lump sum gob of aches and pains.
I hate the piper. I hate his guts.
The spousal unit contemplated my creaky descent to breakfast with concern. "You're not going to the gym, right?" I told him I had to go but that I would take it extremely easy. His misgivings were written all over his face, but he has the great good sense to pick his battles carefully.
My program said to run three miles. I walked two miles and a bit. Slowly. Very slowly. It probably took me almost as long to cover that pitiful distance today as it took me to run five miles yesterday. But walk it I did, and when I was done I felt better, looser.
Fortunately, it was an upper body workout day so I wasn't using the bits of me that had taken a real pounding yesterday. Even then I pulled back, lightened weights a bit, cut back from 15 reps to 10. I feel a lot better than I did when I woke up, but oh, man, I'm still some sore. That quarter mile walk uphill home after my workout kicked my butt.
I am a humbled and chastened woman. I have learned my lesson. This time I mean it. Next time some zygote issues a throw down over in cardio I will avert my eyes, pretend I didn't see it. "Lah lah lah lah lah I Can't Hear You" are now My Official Words To Live By.
With a little self-control I can firmly leash My Inner Gorilla and keep the insane competitiveness that sweeps over me when I walk through the gym door within bounds. A little competitiveness is good, makes me push myself a little harder. But this stupid need to crush? It's going to net me a nasty injury if I'm not careful.
Wipe that smirk right off your face.
I'm an adult. I can do this.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers
Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.
This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine. Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.
©2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.