Sedentary, Sedentary, INJURY!

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Duck, duck….well, you get it.

 

I have been a terrible person to myself.
Well, OK – more so than usual.

I have not done any exercise, other than the little bit required to get me to and from places, for months. I have been hunched over my computer, a wizened old troll writing papers or hunting for a job. Or I have been lounging on the couch, being brain-lazy and playing video games.
Neither of these options is particularly healthy, by the way.

I have had a semi-good excuse. I was in the final weeks of school, finishing up my degree. Then, with the nightmare of looming student debt, I started the job post-grad job search in earnest1.

After a few weeks of this, my body was done. D-O-N-E, done. I woke up one morning and damn near collapsed getting out of bed. My back was sending out urgent distress signals.

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dee-dee-dee-dee-deeeeeee….What?

 

When I eventually got to the doctor, she told me that I had essentially bulged a disc. The doctor was very nice – apparently weeping in pain2 is their weakness – and concerned. She did some routine exams, asked some questions and then told me that I was too old to be competition skydive-skeet-shooting.

Or, maybe I should get up and get some exercise once I had healed up from this issue. Also, that if it wasn’t much better feeling in a week, they wanted me in for an MRI and other expensive things. Of course, my initial reaction was completely grown up.

Still and all, I’m feeling better now. My back is still twingy although it isn’t making me shuffle along like a participant in a death march.

The takeaway on all this has been straightforward. Unless I want to end up in this situation again, I should get my body back into shape. Strengthen up my core and back muscles and lose the little paunch I have developed over the last year.

*SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGH*

 

I suppose my plan of eating nachos and never running again is a violation of the rules, anyway.

FINE, WHATEVS.  PFFT.

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I will be restarting a gentle (at first) exercise program. I plan to gradually ramp it up as my back and general tolerance rebuild. I will be logging said program on Fitocracy. Hopefully, that will help keep me accountable.

Maybe this way I can achieve my dream of doing my 90th birthday skydive into a laser light show.

 

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I presume Pink Floyd will still be having these. Only, they’ll be using their robot bodies by then.

 

 

1 –Seriously, I think that 4 to 6 tailored resumes and cover letters per day is a lot. Plus, the online applications and insta-resume sends (probably 4 or 5 of those each day.) But, maybe I am wrong. What is the norm, Intertrons? What is considered a normal amount of resume sendage, on average per day?

2-She was trying to move my legs so that she could do some neurological tests (whack-a-knee is the medical term for it, I believe) to see if I had perma-damaged myself or no. I didn’t exactly burst into tears (SPOILER: I totally did) but, she must have seen through my gritty exterior to extreme pain that the movement caused.

A Slice of Fiction: Cicada Songs

This is a piece that I wrote a couple years ago. I thought it seemed appropriate for today. 

“Cicada Songs”

            Overhead, the sky was a perfect cerulean shell. The sun threw sharp glints of light off the pool’s surface. The leaves on the large cottonwood lay like limp flags. There was no wind to speak of, no breath of coolness to be had. The cicadas buzzed overhead. Wichita Falls in August.

She stepped from under the shadowy arch of the covered porch onto the pool’s cement deck. Quickly, she hopped backwards into the shade with a little hiss of pain. Hot! She stood on the sides of her feet, eyeing the pool and the five feet of lava that separated her from it. The raft she’d planned to lay on floated mockingly in the blue depths of the far end of the pool. She didn’t want to go back in and hunt for her flip-flops. She was already oiled up and ready to soak up some sun. Bobbie, next door, had told her that boys didn’t like pasty girls. She was already too tall and had a mouthful of braces. School started in a week; a new school, new people. She didn’t want to be pasty on top of everything else.

After a moment, and with a decisive nod to approve her plan, she leapt from under the green plastic roof and landed, one-footed on the deck. Twisting her gangly body, she made another huge leap and landed on her other foot, near the grass the bordered the pool’s deck. She swiftly stepped off into the blissfully cooler green. The cicadas’ song faltered for a moment, as if she’d startled them. Then, as if to cover their lapse, they started again, louder this time.

She hurried around the edge of the decking, making for the far end of the pool. As she approached her destination, she pulled the sunglasses from her face. No reason to lose them if things went awry. Her plan was simplicity. Jump in the end nearest the raft. Less time under water meant less oil washed away. Again, she nodded. She stood poised on the edge of the decking for a moment, calculating the ebb and flow of the raft.  Then she jumped.  One foot! Two foot!  Ahhh, water!  Underneath, she gathered her feet against the bottom of the pool. She realized she could still hear the cicadas, chorusing along. Maybe they were talking to each other, telling each other stories about 12 year old girls and pools, she thought. She shot up from the bottom and floundered onto the raft.

She floated in the blue, in the noise from the insects. They were in the trees, of course. They sang back and forth to each other in waves. The sound was deafening. She had noticed a jet earlier, high up in the sky. She’d squinted through her dark sunglasses, watching the contrail. She couldn’t hear its engines over the metallic chorus of the cicadas. She liked that. The din ratcheted up an octave. The sun was beginning to fall behind the back fence. They always got louder as the sun went down. She didn’t know why.

She pushed down with her feet, allowing the only slightly cooler water onto the body of the raft she occupied. The cicadas talked to each other in their metallic song. She closed her eyes and imagined the sound, like copper shavings, floating across the darkening blue gap of the sky, meeting other shavings and twining together. A story told in pieces, passed on and embellished. I wonder where the story ends up, she thought.

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