This was one of my very first posts that a whole three people read, over a year ago. Since I've gone and done the same thing to myself again, I felt it was worth posting again, especially since I don't think I can improve upon this piece…. or my physical pain.
At least once a year, I get this wacky idea in my head & decide that I need to exercise. I get visions that if I exercise I'm going to be trim & beautiful again. Yeah, right! I think I'm finally learning that this is never a good idea for me, because I seem to hurt myself every time, rendering my body incapable of moving at all. Right now, I'm a useless wet noodle and it even hurts to take deep breaths or stretch. I'm now a whining, groaning lump of flesh and bones, completely unable to do anything.
"How did I come to this?" you ask. Well, I have a good friend who recently bought a new and very expensive elliptical machine and was kind enough to give me her old Torso Track (AKA: The Torture Track). Immediately, I had those grandeur visions of once again being a "flat belly". Oh, the thoughts that raced through my mind! That is, until I had my first session on the beast. I was amazed that I could do 30 repetitions, but I did, all the while thinking about how great I was going to look.
Wrong again. I awoke this morning with a pain in my gut that I can't even describe. I couldn't move, so I just lay in bed lifelessly for a few moments, thinking. I mean I had things to do, places to go, people to see. Yet, I felt as if I'd been stricken with some horrible, debilitating disease that was probably going to be named after me, for being the first one to have it.
Then, I remembered my DUMB ASS actions of the previous day. Guess I should have opted for the slow start, like maybe only 10 repetitions instead of 30, but at the time, it didn't hurt. So, I slowly began to roll over in order to basically roll out of bed with as little muscle movement as possible. The result: I rolled off the bed and slammed to the floor with my head landing in the wastebasket I keep at the bedside. Oh Yeah! That was fun. So, hubby strolls into the room at this very moment and asks why I'm on the floor with my head in the wastebasket. "Are you sick?" he asks. Unable to speak, I could only point to the Torso Track that lay by the dresser, laughing at me. Hubby says "Uh-Huh", chuckles, and leaves the room.
Okay, fine! Now let's try the next step. Getting up and standing. Ooooohhhh! Owww! I managed to pick up my silk robe (which felt like a ton of bricks) and put it on, then I baby-stepped my way to the den and my computer. I've been here ever since because I'm afraid to move, afraid of the inevitable return of the stabbing pains. Apparently, I've either pulled or strained my poor, sleeping stomach muscles and now they're protesting at such abuse. Wait - better yet, make that RIOTING!
Now, you'd think at my age I'd know better. Wrong! And this isn't the first time I've done this kind of thing. I've done this to myself so many times that my Dear Hubby no longer offers any sort of sympathy or back rubs or anything except the giving of smirks while shaking his head. Thanks honey! Although I can't blame him, really. I've had nearly every machine known to woman and I seem to always get hurt, to the point I have to discontinue any sort of exercise for weeks until I'm healed. I've been a DUMB ASS about exercise for years.
Before I met my husband, I was a ski instructor in Aspen and the picture of health. I loved skiing and I literally lived and breathed it. When ski season was over, I spent Summers hiking and backpacking and fishing on the Frying Pan and Roaring Fork rivers, up to Snowmass Lake, Maroon Bells, and the many wonderful places around Aspen. I could do anything back then. I was young and in the greatest shape of my life. Unfortunately, when I moved to Texas, I never found anything in the way of exercise that I could stick to and yet, my DUMB ASS brain still thinks I'm young and allows me do these silly things to hurt my DUMB ASS. I'm not 23 anymore. Hell, I don't even feel I'm 56. Today, I feel like I'm 80 and on my deathbed. Why doesn't our brain age simultaneously with our bodies? Right now, if I could move, I'd give myself a swift kick in the arse, but I'd probably hurt myself again.... "Honey," I yell out. "Can you go to the drug store and buy me an old fart's walker, pleeeease?" All I hear is the sound of one hand clapping.... Yes, I think I'm beginning to *get it*.
At least once a year, I get this wacky idea in my head & decide that I need to exercise. I get visions that if I exercise I'm going to be trim & beautiful again. Yeah, right! I think I'm finally learning that this is never a good idea for me, because I seem to hurt myself every time, rendering my body incapable of moving at all. Right now, I'm a useless wet noodle and it even hurts to take deep breaths or stretch. I'm now a whining, groaning lump of flesh and bones, completely unable to do anything.
"How did I come to this?" you ask. Well, I have a good friend who recently bought a new and very expensive elliptical machine and was kind enough to give me her old Torso Track (AKA: The Torture Track). Immediately, I had those grandeur visions of once again being a "flat belly". Oh, the thoughts that raced through my mind! That is, until I had my first session on the beast. I was amazed that I could do 30 repetitions, but I did, all the while thinking about how great I was going to look.
Wrong again. I awoke this morning with a pain in my gut that I can't even describe. I couldn't move, so I just lay in bed lifelessly for a few moments, thinking. I mean I had things to do, places to go, people to see. Yet, I felt as if I'd been stricken with some horrible, debilitating disease that was probably going to be named after me, for being the first one to have it.
Then, I remembered my DUMB ASS actions of the previous day. Guess I should have opted for the slow start, like maybe only 10 repetitions instead of 30, but at the time, it didn't hurt. So, I slowly began to roll over in order to basically roll out of bed with as little muscle movement as possible. The result: I rolled off the bed and slammed to the floor with my head landing in the wastebasket I keep at the bedside. Oh Yeah! That was fun. So, hubby strolls into the room at this very moment and asks why I'm on the floor with my head in the wastebasket. "Are you sick?" he asks. Unable to speak, I could only point to the Torso Track that lay by the dresser, laughing at me. Hubby says "Uh-Huh", chuckles, and leaves the room.
Okay, fine! Now let's try the next step. Getting up and standing. Ooooohhhh! Owww! I managed to pick up my silk robe (which felt like a ton of bricks) and put it on, then I baby-stepped my way to the den and my computer. I've been here ever since because I'm afraid to move, afraid of the inevitable return of the stabbing pains. Apparently, I've either pulled or strained my poor, sleeping stomach muscles and now they're protesting at such abuse. Wait - better yet, make that RIOTING!
Now, you'd think at my age I'd know better. Wrong! And this isn't the first time I've done this kind of thing. I've done this to myself so many times that my Dear Hubby no longer offers any sort of sympathy or back rubs or anything except the giving of smirks while shaking his head. Thanks honey! Although I can't blame him, really. I've had nearly every machine known to woman and I seem to always get hurt, to the point I have to discontinue any sort of exercise for weeks until I'm healed. I've been a DUMB ASS about exercise for years.
Before I met my husband, I was a ski instructor in Aspen and the picture of health. I loved skiing and I literally lived and breathed it. When ski season was over, I spent Summers hiking and backpacking and fishing on the Frying Pan and Roaring Fork rivers, up to Snowmass Lake, Maroon Bells, and the many wonderful places around Aspen. I could do anything back then. I was young and in the greatest shape of my life. Unfortunately, when I moved to Texas, I never found anything in the way of exercise that I could stick to and yet, my DUMB ASS brain still thinks I'm young and allows me do these silly things to hurt my DUMB ASS. I'm not 23 anymore. Hell, I don't even feel I'm 56. Today, I feel like I'm 80 and on my deathbed. Why doesn't our brain age simultaneously with our bodies? Right now, if I could move, I'd give myself a swift kick in the arse, but I'd probably hurt myself again.... "Honey," I yell out. "Can you go to the drug store and buy me an old fart's walker, pleeeease?" All I hear is the sound of one hand clapping.... Yes, I think I'm beginning to *get it*.
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