…but that doesn’t make them any less important to us. And, by “us” I mean “me.”
I spent the last couple of weeks planning my April schedule. I wanted to write a lot of fiction, blog like a maniac, and run many miles—not as many or as fast as I used to, but many nonetheless.
After finishing the draft of a six-week schedule, I emailed it to my doctor (I shall, lovingly, refer to him as The Party-Pooper henceforth).
He called me back…
…that’s never a good sign.
The Party-Pooper usually emails me and tells me I’m the best patient in the world.
“How has your hip being acting?” he said.
“Great,” I told him. “I had some serious pain after I came back from Mexico, but plane rides always do that.”
Those of you who have been following my blog for a couple of years might remember that I used to complain a lot about my hip and my shoulder. But since I made some big changes that included not sitting on regular chairs, not lifting more than a couple of pounds with my right arm, not pushing the vacuum… my hip and shoulder got better.
“Can you think why that might be,” the Party-Pooper said.
“Why what might be?” I’m very good at dodging things I don’t particularly like.
“Your hip. Why hasn’t it hurt a lot?”
I know exactly why. “No, I’ve no idea. Maybe because I no longer have to commute.”
“And I stopped reading books while walking, too. That might’ve helped.”
Really long silence.
Sigh. “I really want to run a PFT on my birthday. You said exercising was good for me. I’m not running a freaking marathon. Just three miles. And maybe a hike or—”
“How many running miles will you put on your hip and bounce through your shoulder before you are ready to run a Physical Fitness Test for time and speed.”
“I don’t know.” I lied.
“Don’t you have a copy of the plan you sent me? Add them up. I know you can count, Staff Sergeant.”
“Jerk-Squid,” I muttered loud enough for him to hear, while I quietly reexamined the wisdom of having a doctor who is also my friend.
“I’m not trying to poop on your party—”
I burst out laughing. “Did you just say “poop on your party”? That’s glorious. I hope you know I’m blogging about this. And plan to call you Señor Party-Pooper, or Jerk-Squid. No, just The Party-Pooper.”
“Let’s be serious, G. I know you want to run, but these months without running were good for you.”
“Running doesn’t hurt that much,” I sighed, feeling a little sorry for myself—we all have those moments, my Wicked Luvs. “I miss running.”
“Why not dance instead? Dancing and modified calisthenics will keep you in shape and unstressed.”
“My soul wants to run.”
“That’s because your soul will be forever twenty-one, but your hip and shoulder are almost thirty-seven and slowly leaning towards cripplehood.”
“You’ve ruined my spring. I hope you’re happy.”
“Are you crying?” he said.
“Of course not. Witches don’t cry. I just feel passionate about this, and my passions make me emotional, and a bit of energy from the West leaked out of my eyeballs.”
So… I guess that’s no more running for me, my Wicked Luvs. I know it’s a stupid thing, but it still makes me a little sad. I knew I would have to slowdown eventually, but the idea of having to stop completely took me by surprise. I lost swimming for distance seven years ago, bicycling three years after that, and now running…
No biggie. I can delight in walking, modified calisthenics (like wild sex *giggles and cackles*), hula hooping, light hikes, and I can still dance in front of the mirror until my dragon stops looking like it’s trying to escape my favorite pants.