Physical therapy checkup!

Megahellasuperoversize Elveløpet shirt!

First day back at physical therapy!

New thing that I didn’t even realize is an essential bucket-list experience: They used a plunger on my kneecap. As in THEY USED AN ACTUAL-LOOKING (THOUGH TODDLER-SIZE) (AND A HANDSOME SHADE OF BLUE) TOILET PLUNGER TO SUCK MY KNEECAP AWAY FROM MY LEG TO STRETCH THE MUSCLES AND STUFF AROUND IT PLUS TO MAKE ACCIDENTAL (OR WERE THEY?) FART SOUNDS! I’m pissed that I’m injured again, I’m pooped from the running they had me do to analyze my gait (I really had to toil at it), but I’m flush with optimism about the success of this therapy.

Also: The home exercises they prescribed for me look like practice being dead and practice being slutty.

Yay! More physical therapy!

 Yay! Nike Swoosh!

I! GRADUATED! FROM! PHYSICAL! THERAPY!

And I got a free T-shirt! And a squinty selfie!

What I learned this morning:

1. I think I’ll be able to run tomorrow’s 8K.

2. There’s a chance I may be an idiot for doing it.
3. Which would completely sabotage all my summer and fall running goals.
4. Or not.
5. My physical therapist gave me the go-ahead to run tomorrow, but only because she trusts me to pull my head out of my ass and stop running at the first sign of pain.
6. Those weren’t her exact words.
7. But she’s right.
8. These two yahoos are saints for joining me this morning in what I warned them might end up being just a lovely sunrise walk.
9. Which it pretty much was.
10. I estimate we ran a mile and walked a mile and a half in aggregate.
11. My stupid-damn-fuck-you-I-hate-you-I-hate-you-I-hate-you-not-fair-why-why-why-injured hip is definitely sore right now.
12. But in an I’m-just-being-overly-cautious sensitive way and not an I’ve-reactivated-my-injury-and-completely-sabotaged-all-my-summer-and-fall-running-goals way.
13. I think.
14. But I just said “I think” on list number 13, which probably negates it and I might as well set up a ladder in a black-cat breeding mill and walk under it.
15. Or I just said that to pad this list so it reaches 25.
16. Game ON!
17. We didn’t plan to be so collectively patriotic in our running attire this morning.
18. Clearly Rob and I are actory drama queens because we’re not afraid to be weird in our selfies.
19. Clearly Scott is a master of self-restraint and decorum because he always looks normal and respectable in our selfies.
20. Or he’s just a fun-selfie sabotager.
21. You’d think that given the consistency in his boring, normal smiles over the last two months that Facebook would always automatically recognize him when I post our selfies.
22. But you’d be wrong.
23. But we still embrace him as one of our own.
24. C’mon, 25! You can do it!
25. BOOYAH!
26. Oops.

How to tell if your physical therapist is out to get you:

1) She makes you do weird, awkward, unflattering exercises in front of that one super-hot guy who doesn’t have a wedding ring

2) Knee bends

I’m at physical therapy. Sup with you?

Running out of patience

Instead of running three miles this morning AS I SHOULD RIGHTFULLY BE DOING I’m warming up for physical therapy on a recumbent bicycle for my right-fully hip injury. Sigh. But recumbent is a three-dollar word and bicycle is the suspiciously gay bachelor uncle of bike. So I’m a three-dollar suspiciously gay bachelor uncle. Or something.

Physical therapy!

I have no idea what that thing over my head is either! But there’s no logo in the waiting room for me to use as a selfie background! So my selfie backgrounds are limited to collages of stuff I’m too lazy to turn around and look at! Also because turning my torso hurts my hip! Which is why I’m here!

Inching back to normal one quarter mile at a time

My clumsy myopic-camel-struggling-to-avoid-potholes-on-a-three-wheeled-skateboard new running gait that my PT showed me + two quarter-mile walk breaks + a refreshing rainstorm + the benevolent run-on-my-injured-hip’s-terms patience of Rob and Scott = THREE SAD LITTLE 12:18-MINUTE MILES, BABY! Plus only a bit of hip pain at the very end. Plus some extremely waterlogged clothes. Plus some sexy just-out-of-the-lap-pool-in-a-Speedo hair. Plus a triumphant selfie in front of Rob’s midlife-crisis Ford Edsel. Or whatever.

#HowToTurn50 #Ouch

Three things:

1. I got measured and X-rayed and gross-stuff-teeth-molded this afternoon for a dental device that’s supposed to alleviate my sleep apnea and finally LET ME GET A DAMN NIGHT’S SLEEP. I hate to brag—oh, let’s not kid ourselves ... I TOTALLY love to brag—but one of the measurements the doctor took today was qualified as Class 1. I’m CLASS ONE, PEOPLE.

2. Then I went to physical therapy for my damn hip. The PT videotaped my running gait and then slowed it down to analyze it, and it turns out my running stride defaults to my legs crossing over in front of each other like I’m dominating a Paris runway like an uberfierce supermodel. (That last bit of imagery may or may not have been mine and not the PT’s.) In any case, I apparently now need to focus on running with a And gait that keeps my feet under my shoulders. WHICH FEELS LIKE I’M PLAYING HOPSCOTCH ON THE BED OF A MOVING HAY TRUCK. This is going to take some effort.

3. I’m starting to get the feeling that trump is a lying, delusional, kick-in-the-ballsworthy piece of donkey shit.