While I’m waiting for the injury nonsense to subside, I can at least cement my status as sweatiest person at the gym.
Meet my temporary best friends:
That’d be The Stick, ibuprofen, frozen peas for icing, Tiger Balm, and castor oil for a heat pack, which isn’t in the above picture because it’s currently wrapped around my leg with an Ace bandage (photo-documented below).
If you count yourself among the legions of vapid biddies who are scared of gross things like awful photographs featuring piss-poor lighting, bumpy legs and busted non-pedicured feet, you might want to skip this one.
At this moment I would like to draw everyone’s attention to the monster vein in my right foot. It has always been this way. It is visible even through my socks because it is epicballsauce and I know that you are now bloated with envy over my huge foot vein.
The doctor has confirmed that my calf injury is a tear. Based on the way I injured it and the resultant bruising, I probably could have concluded this on my own, but sometimes you need somebody else to call you out on it before you’ll accept an injury for what it is and give it the respect it deserves.
He recommended another month off, and I immediately liquefied into an incoherent, red-faced trainwreck.
To be honest, there have been a fair number of frustrated tears over this silly calf thing. For right now, though, I’m in a good place with it. Running causes wear and tear on the body, and injury management comes with the territory. I’ve got to be mature and deal with this. There are mornings where the prospect of going to the gym again instead of running outside in the glorious weather feels unbearable, but I want to maintain my fitness. That means gutting through it even though sitting on the couch and sulking is easier.
The truly challenging part will be in a few weeks when I have the green light to run again. I know that restricting myself to lower mileage and respecting residual aches on the comeback trail may prove to be the most difficult part of this entire process. The risk of reinjury will be high if I don’t play it smart.
Innnn the meantime, I have staged complete domination (blatant hogging) of my favorite gym cardio machines.
The other day, a fellow gym regular gave me this:
As in, he just walked up and wordlessly forced it into my hands as I was heading for the locker room.
I was momentarily confused by his lack of explanation: “Uh, thank– is– why–”
In response, his eyes flickered to the puddle of sweat accumulating on the floor underneath me and then he pointed to my clothes, which, as usual, looked as though they had very recently endured a monsoon. He hesitated, smiled weakly, and said, “You obviously need it.”