Same with the shin.
And even triple same with the biceps. Biceps curls with a 10-pound dumbbell, for fuck's sake. It's something I have been doing for YEARS. Yeah. I'm not some new kid on a health kick. I've been doing this shit for YEARS. And, at this point, I am about 70% sure I am going to wind up having to have surgery to fix my fucking arm.
And it worries me. Because looking back on it, I had no warning. There is absolutely nothing I can say, in hindsight, that I should have picked up on. No twinges or soreness or anything. One minute, I was great. The next minute, bam. So what do I do? Again, I really do not know.
But. I gave myself 6 weeks. And 6 weeks was September 25. And despite my relative blog silence, I have actually been running since September 25. Yes. It is true. Every other day up until last Tuesday, when I ran three-point-one and decided to take a couple days off…. Because I might have felt a twinge, but I don’t know for sure, but I might have, and so I got paranoid.
Honestly. It’s that ridiculous. That is how completely unaware I am of my own body. I really fucking don’t know if I felt a twinge or not.
I ran this morning for the first time since Tuesday, back when I really don’t know if I felt a twinge or not.
I ran 3.1 today, but walking 1/10 and running 2/10. I have a GPS, so…. You know… I’m not like a distance-sensing genius or something…. Just wanted to put that out there.
I’m not even a body-sensing genius.
Hell. I am a nothing genius.
Either way. I know for a fact I did not feel a twinge today.
Truthishly? I feel like a fucking superstar because I actually decided not to just say FUCK IT and run away with my leg covered in a lidocaine patch. Seriously. Because there was a voice deep down in my something-cortex that said,
“Hey! Hey Aimee! Yeah, you! You know what? You could slap one of them thar fancy patches on your leg and run till the sun comes up and never feel a thing!!”
At least I’m smart enough not to listen to her. She’s a fucking nutjob six ways from Sunday.
Speaking of nutjobs.
Sarge and Drew have been sick for the past 2 weeks. I love them. I really do. Like, for serious. I love them more than that lavender spice incense shit at the day spa Sarge and I go to for our fancy-pants massages. Cuz we’re fancy like that. FANCY!!
BUT. Oh-Em-Gee. Did you read the part where I said they've been sick for 2 weeks?
Actually, they left the house for the first time about an hour ago. I can feel the fresh air replacing the bacteria-laden filth I have been inhaling for the past 2 weeks.
And just my luck. I pull shit and break shit and tear shit, but goddamnitalltohell if I get to be sick and have people bring me food once in a goddamn while!
I really need to rename my posts about running again. Something that truly reflects the ridiculous Jim-Carrey-esque physical comedy it has become.
Because the truth is. I have no fucking clue what I am doing. Actually, I don't think I have had a clue what I am doing since the day I was gifted with human self-awareness. It just seems to get funnier and funnier the older I get.
Speaking of which, I have a picture of 2-year-old Aimee in a dress with no pants on, scratching her lady parts. I do. Hell no, I ain't showing you!