I am injured and I’m pretty mad about it. I’ve built my identity so much around being a
runner that I’ve gone so far as to start a blog about it, and yet, I’m not
running. I feel like a fraud.
A has had an intermittent pain in his butt for a while now. I meant that literally and not as a euphemism
for yours truly, although he might think otherwise. This strange muscle or nerve pain will pop up
occasionally during a run, but he thinks it actually started when he was sitting
in a seat with inadequate cushioning on a really long flight (here’s looking at
you, Virgin Airlines). I was also on
that flight but had no such problems since my ass has plenty of cushion, thank
you very much. Quite frankly, it’s hard
for me to sympathize with someone hurt for lack of butt fat, especially since
this pain isn’t sidelining him anyway.
Whereas my injury is keeping me from running for a week and I’m afraid
I’ll go crazy.
Like any good amateur athlete, of course I
self-diagnosed. Initially I thought it
was the back of my right knee, but now I’ve isolated the pain to the top of my
calf. I’ve decided to not run for seven
days so that it can heal properly in time for the race I’m doing in three
weeks. I hope that will be all it takes,
and I’m trying to figure out what to do for exercise in the meantime. I feel especially sorry for myself when A
goes on fast, long-distance runs without me while I stay at home and empty the
litter box.
Certainly my problems aren’t as bad as, say, having to flee
to the Turkish border because my homeland is being ravaged by civil war. I know I’m being a Whiny McAnnoyingpants.
I could use this week as a time of reflection, but who wants
to do that? I’ll see you at the pool! (Once I’ve taken the litter out.)
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