SURE THING!

This shirt seemed like a versatile, suitable-for-all-occasions chemise when I found it for $5 on an Old Navy tumble table way back when Old Navy was relevant and people actually said “tumble table.”

Now I find it slightly problematic for places like work and public locations in general ... so instead I’m wearing it backstage at a wholesome musical cast with legions of corruptible kids who see me as a plausible role model.

But, hey: FIVE DOLLARS

Also: Don’t judge my floofy, savagely untamed hair here; I was freshly showered and rolling my leg injuries as I took this selfie and I hadn’t yet styled my coiffure for our wholesome musical cast with legions of corruptible kids who see me as a plausible role model. SO DON’T BLAME ME WHEN THEY GROW UP TO BE DAMN COMMIE SOCIALIST HIPPIES.

Also: FIVE DOLLARS

Left to right:

My small, medium and large calf (née knee) compression sleeves are washed and drip-dried in my deluxe-soothing-grey-with-an-ey-like-fancy-Europeans-spell-it-spa-like bathroom and ready for the sweaty onslaught of Hello, Dolly! production week.

My gastrocnemius strain won’t stand a chance.

This season's fashion keyword: LAYERING

I bought a small compression sleeve.

I bought a medium compression sleeve.

I bought a large compression sleeve.

I didn’t know which would fit.

So I put all of them on.

I. AM. VERY. COMPRESSED.

Calfway there and livin' on a prayer

Walgreens rudely doesn’t have calf-compression sleeves so I had to improvise and buy a knee one. But I’m not certified on knee-to-calf conversion measurements so I bought one that’s way too big. But I layered one of those stick-on heating pads (which was designed for backs, so again: more blind-guessing conversions) underneath and I’m just hoping for the best.

Also: My ankle looks weirdly puffy.

Also: I have no idea why I’m in possession of two mismatched wastebaskets at work, but it makes me feel richer than Midas so don’t tell anyone.

The verdict: Grade II muscle strain in my calf

I have to stay off of it (not that the pain would let me stay on it) for a week. I’ll just be sitting at rehearsals. I have no idea how I’m going to drive my stick shift. Or sleep through the night.

But the big knot in my calf sure gives me a shapely gam.

Some jetés land you gracefully on your other foot. Some jetés land you in the ER.

You know how sometimes pain can make you flop sweat all over your existing sweat? Yeah.

I’m pretty sure I just have an epic muscle strain in my calf, but the pain has been breathtaking enough that I decided to have it looked at right away. And a nice theater mom took me to the hospital because there’s no way I can drive. Or dance in the show for a while.

Shit.

Flashback Friday: Granny Socks And Abs Edition

You know how when you get old and lumpy you feel compelled to show everyone how lithe and nubile you once were? It's a good thing I didn't put that into words here because what my cover story for reposting this picture is remember that one time I had to wear granny compression socks to keep my shin splints from exploding out of my legs when I ran a half marathon in epic EPIC heat and they were itchy and hot but they did their job and I managed to finish in a medal-winning time? (And don't listen to those losers who say that EVERYBODY gets a medal for crossing the finish line. We don't need that kind of negativity in our lives.)

Don’t shave in a hot shower with a big nose, kids

Note to self: It's way past time for SOMEONE to shave his old-man ape shoulders.

High four!

Flashback Friday: Personal Best Edition

I hit my never-to-be-beaten personal best (1:56:03, baby!) ten years ago in this half marathon, which weirdly tried to rebrand itself as something bigger than it was by calling itself the Chicago 13.1 Marathon.

Amateur runners of a certain size and weight strive to run sub-2:00 half marathons, and this is the only time I ever beat that milestone. I did it in part because an Ironman-doing friend of mine recommended that I take a handful of Advil before the race so I wouldn't feel any pain. Which worked like a charm because I felt awesome the entire time and the whole day afterward. AND THEN I WAS CRIPPLED FOR LIFE WHEN I WOKE UP THE NEXT MORNING. Word to the wise from the front lines of bad ideas: Never do this.

You know how I never have stupid medical problems like chronic running injuries or bipolar disorder or a now five-week occipital neuralgia headache? Ahem.

I mean remember how I had a suspicious mole on my wrist biopsied two months ago? Turns out it’s squamous cell carcinoma, which wouldn’t exactly be a headlining drag name. And after a month-long wait to get on his super-packed calendar (pro tip: go into dermatology if you want ironclad job security) and I’m finally at a dermatologist’s (at the cruel buttcrack of dawn) for a preliminary look at it to schedule coming back to have it removed.

SO. MANY. DOCTOR. APPOINTMENTS.

I have more Extra Strength Tylenol in me than is probably healthy for my kidneys and liver

and my lingering deep headache makes me afraid to lie down for fear the pain will recalibrate its spatial orientation and intensify all over again, but I survived my first visit with a hot shower and a bottle of shampoo and I managed to keep my hair on point with only a fraction of product on only a fraction of my not-throbbing scalp, so I’m still a big boy.

My family told me on no uncertain terms to NOT post these pictures, so challenge accepted!

The good news is I got our back deck and the grill and all the patio furniture (now christened Porch Song Trilogy) all scrubbed and cleaned and dried and set up for summer.

The bad news is the umbrella for the table didn’t get set up. It’s on a high shelf in the garage, see, so I set up our tall step stool in a place near one end of the umbrella. That place also happened to be directly under the surprisingly sharp and surprisingly hard end of the track for the garage door. Not noticing this troublesome placement, I bounded up the step stool at full force ... and hit my head so hard on the sharp, hard end of the track that I saw stars and all but collapsed to the floor where blood ran down my arm and the pain intensified so quickly that I actually started gasping and sobbing.

My poor dad—who is legally blind—ran to get our poor neighbor—who had to look at my bloody, swollen head without barfing—and together they decided to take me to the ER:

The other good news is I don’t need stitches, but I have an impressive lump and a possible concussion and a badass punk-rocker streak of blood in my hair:

The other bad news, though, is the stupid, mean, dumbass doctor won’t let me go to the gym for arm day. So I apologize in advance if you see me today with my lumpy red head and my saggy, deflated arms.

The other freaking awesome news is our freaking awesome neighbor climbed (carefully) up the (newly placed) step stool to get our umbrella down, and it was waiting next to the driveway for us when we got home.

Things I unearthed in this weekend’s storage-unit excavation, from left to right:

* All those random electronics cords that the world has been searching for in our collective, almost desperate random-electronics-cords drought (sorry!)
* A rubber keychain from a Chicago marathon that I will neither ever use nor apparently throw away
* A half-used container of Body Glide that—get your minds out of the gutter—distance runners use to prevent chafing on rubby body parts and that I’ve used only as a very precautious precaution because I’ve never really had chafing issues but I’d rather not discover that I do halfway through a long, sweaty run
* Art magnets for the art-magnet collection I forgot I once started and clearly never spent much time growing
* The knee brace that got me through my first marathon (can you tell I stumbled on a big box of running stuff in my excavation?)
* A crackle-finish ceramic hand that I bought during my Decorating With Fake Body Parts Phase that if I remember correctly also included a phrenology head, a skull and a fully articulated skeleton on a fake-old-timey stand (all of which no doubt await discovery in a future excavation trip to the storage unit)
* Two souvenir Disney luggage tags that currently contain business cards from four addresses ago, but that’s about to be fixed.

I also found an unopened package of razors and a slightly crumpled box of #10 envelopes that seemed a shame to just throw away, but that’s all so unimportant that I won’t even mention them here.

I’ve been really conscientious (thank goodness autospell took that word and ran with it for me after three letters) about stretching and gently easing into movement with the areas of my body that have historically flared up with chronic gym injuries

... and I’ve perhaps been too enthusiastic about diving into my workouts involving every part of my body that hasn’t previously given me trouble because now I have heretofore-not-existing pain and tightness deep in my ventral left deltoid. It’s not bad, but it’s bad enough that it’s sidelined my chest and shoulders workouts out of caution. Fortunately, I still have a back and legs and a core and two arms, the latter of which are getting some brutal attention today. OK, intermittently brutal; there are currently five other people here and they’re all on the other side of the gym and clearly not holding auditions for Husband Who Actually Works Out Instead Of Sitting On The Equipment Brazenly Taking Selfies And Playing On His Phone and I’m probably spending too much time sitting on the equipment brazenly taking selfies and playing on my phone instead of brutally blasting my arms.

Oops—the Bus Of More Gym People must have pulled up while I blathered on and on in that last sentence because now there are more gym people here. I’m still all alone on the preacher bench at the front of the gym though, so maybe they all know something I don’t. Or they’re afraid of seeing my ventral left deltoid explode in a shower of pain, gristle and glitter.

My anatomy isn’t such that I can take a selfie that shows any progress on my arm blast, so I’m reduced to posting a selfie that shows zero progress in removing my face wrinkles or taming my hair. The management regrets this error.

It’s our first show back after five days off

and I somehow, somewhere (I honestly don’t remember) managed to knock a few square inches off a week’s worth of scabbing from last week’s epic stumble in the dark and bleed all over everything I came in contact with tonight. I was more worried about my partially healed ripped-off fingernail catching on something and re-ripping itself off, but at least it behaved. And yes, I’m flipping you off in this photo, but don’t take it personally. And stop trying to make this about you.

Otherwise, tonight’s show KICKED ASS (thanks, pre-drunk audience!) and I was in really good voice for my stratospheric money notes, though I’ve learned twice now that I don’t cover well when I white-out on a line. Thankfully I’m surrounded by very quick, helpful actors to save me from melting into a puddle of flop sweat both times it happened.

You have only five more times to see our awesome little show ... and our awesome little winkies. Come join us!

When the massive injury on your left shin keeps you up all night in pain

PLUS in the middle of the night your right calf decides to get an epic charley horse (WTF? WHAT NON-PREGNANT PERSON GETS A CHARLEY HORSE?) and you’re so tired and sore in the morning that you cancel your lunch plans to try to get some sleep snuggled up on the couch and there’s fluffy snow outside your windows and Alexa is playing Beethoven’s ninth symphony and your mom makes your favorite bran muffins, THAT STILL DOESN’T CHANGE THE FACT THAT YOU’RE MISERABLE WITH A SUGAR HANGOVER FROM EATING A DOZEN CHOCOLATE-CHIP COOKIES AT LAST NIGHT’S CAST PARTY.

Opening night pump! Because these show tunes aren’t gonna flex themselves!

It turns out a poorly timed leg day—desperate vanity dictates that I probably should have cycled into a chest day on opening night—is especially unproductive the day after shredding a bacon-size piece of flesh off my shin. But it’s too late now, and my man-fleshy butt is off to the theater for its official show-tune debut.

And to all of you gym members too dumb to notice that I’ve been taking stealth selfies every time I work out: AT LEAST LOOK UP AND NOTICE MY SHIRT!

When you jam a snap under your fingernail as you grab the sides of your tearaway stripper pants and then shred every inch of flesh from your shin tripping over a heavy wooden chair in a blackout, you at the very least have two solid reasons to involuntarily yell FUCK! onstage

Snapping groin injuries at the squat rack are cripplingly painful and all ...

but you don’t know TRULY debilitating pain until you’ve put your hand in the pocket of your polyester knit track pants while you have a hangnail.