Two steps forward

Last week, while I was limping around on my bad foot, a friend who drove up to see me, pointed to my Ace bandage and said, "Are you on another exercise kick? Don't you know you're supposed to start slow, Devlin?!"

Oh my god, are you kidding me?? I was taking it slow and, now, after taking two weeks off, I've had to start over completely. All right, I have to be honest and this is killing me, but you know what? I really have been taking it slow. Really slow. Ridiculously slow. I've been takin' it easy like Donna M. I was on the elliptical Friday and Saturday for an overall whopping time of 30 minutes. Total. That's 15 minutes a day. I feel like an old Dodge Dart that's been sitting in the backyard collecting bees (thanks Louis CK).

I was chatting with another friend about my ankle (I really am a bore sometimes), basically lamenting the fact that I didn't go to a doctor when I initially injured it about eight years ago. This friend has broken pretty much every bone in her body and has gone through countless hours of physical therapy, so I trust her opinion. She has also spent the past year visiting with a personal trainer to get herself back into shape and she looks great. She talks about how she hasn't lost weight, but that's not how I calculate that stuff. I've mentioned her before in this blog, but I want to say it again because it's inspirational, even though I really hate that word. She is thinner; she is stronger; and she is holding herself more solidly. That's enough for me.

Anyway, she said, "If you had gone to the doctor, you would have gotten an air cast, but that would have nothing to do with how you're feeling now. The doctor would have prescribed hours of physical therapy and that's what makes the difference. Would you have gone to PT or would you have blown it off?"

"...blown it off..."

"That's your answer. Stop bitching about it."

I love her like a sister.

Speaking of Louis CK, my friend Hugh, who is a doctor, reminded me of this bit about being over 40 this past weekend; I hadn't even told him about my painful ankle because I was boring even myself with it. In short, for the rest of my life, I can't get above 15 miles an hour before shit starts cracking and falling off and there's nothing I can do about it. Perfect.

a-howww-ow-ow-ow

I promise I'll just keep going. Just keep swimming. Even when it's demoralizing. In fact, I was working my IT band last night and I heard myself going, "Oh...ow...okay...yup...[groan]...that's the spot...riiiiiight....oof....there....[huff huff huff]..." I wonder how many times I've done that in public. I think I've been doing that for years. I want to crawl under a rock. But, in all fairness, that maneuver where you put the foam roller near your crotch and creep forward is pretty sexual. And, whatever. Now you can go to the gym and stretch on those mats that nobody seems to use and you will know, for a fact, that you are not the grossest thing to hit the room. I am.

If I can keep doing this, anyone can. Get an injury, take some time, then get back on the machine. Get another injury, take more time, get back on the machine.

Two steps forward. Two steps back. Two steps forward. One step back. Two steps forward.