Took myself for a walk Sunday, on my Birthday (technically two walks), a total of 12 miles. The second 6 miles I did with MacKenzie, the Westie, who is by far the smallest animal in the house – and I had her run parts of it with me. She had been outside all day and was probably tired before the walk even got started, but she has huge heart and went the whole way by my side! I giggled when I got home and she was asleep almost immediately. I shouldn’t have done that. By the end of the day, my ankles were swollen and bruised, my knees hurt and my calves and shins were totally achy and like Jell-O. I have been walking miles each day for the past several weeks – what gives!?!?
I’ll tell you what gives: I am officially old and my body is revolting against me. 29: 12 miles = no problem. Overnight, I turned 30: 12 miles = what feels like a broken ankle, sore feet and knees that don’t want to bend or help hold me upright. Stairs are out of the question at this point because they take me F-O-R-E-V-E-R!
Due to my “physical ailments”, I bought new tennis shoes. My body, from the knees down, laughs at them. I tell the shoes not to worry, as the rest of me, from the knees up, is being laughed at too.
Compounding the issue: I currently weigh more than I ever have. By 4 lbs. I don’t think this is causing the ankle troubles, I’m not that nuts. My mother, unlike my body, is kind to me and insists it is muscle weight. I love my mother – have I mentioned this previously!?! I hate the scale. And my pants. My pants and the scale are in cahoots with my ankles. They’re all out to get me. I eat vegetables and fruit and drink milk – it’s supposed to do a body good. Whose body? I need an example because it certainly isn’t mine.
Maybe I could be couch-bound. Daytime TV is awful, but I have NetFlix and Facebook and could really afford to spend a little more time writing for the Blog. Porter could learn to open the fridge door and bring me things and Sophie seems most likely to learn how to make microwave popcorn. MacKenzie…well, she’s a great snuggler, so she’ll be on the sofa with me. Brilliant!
Wait – who will help me get to the bathroom? And why doesn’t Starbucks deliver!? And who would answer the door if they did? After careful consideration and review, I have decided the couch will just have to be reserved for evenings and weekends.
Bribery. If I offer my ankles a post-walk Bloody Mary, perhaps they would be more cooperative? Well, if nothing else, that will make me care less if they’re swollen and bruised.
Cheers!
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