Our Lady of Perpetual Hell

For all my life I have dreamt of finding a guy who’s smart and funny and “gets” me… a man who is as keen to listen as he is to express himself… a fella with whom I share some interests… who has a sense of responsibility… and who likes to cook… and who shops for his own Christmas gifts… and who has a job!

But that list has just become significantly shorter.

He can be dumb as shit, humourless as hell, lazy and stinky, but if he can bend me and fold me like Dave does, I’ll take him.

After my physiotherapy session with him this aft, I was able to get out for my first run in more than a month. He limited me to just a kilometer, but that’s a kilometer longer than I’ve run in all this time.

Happy.

I have been hesitating to write about this, but I’ve decided it’s time to go ahead and spill the beans… I’ve been seeing someone.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Unfortunately, it’s a physiotherapist. And it’s only professionally.

I have what has been diagnosed as a hip flexor strain. I’ve been Limpy McGimp for the past 4 or 5 weeks, and haven’t been able to go running. I wouldn’t have ever guessed that not being able to run would be as frustrating as it has been… For the first few months after taking up the sport, it was the feeling of accomplishment I had after a run that made me feel good but it eventually morphed into a real enjoyment of the actual process of running. I looked forward to getting out there. I mention it now because my injury had been getting better over the past week or two but I started noticeably limping again yesterday morning. Dunno why. Don’t recall doing anything weird the day before that. But this step backwards makes me wanna cry on somebody’s shoulder (and if you’re reading this then you’re nominated), so it’s obvious that the frustration that has been building over the past few weeks is starting to really wear on me…

I have an appointment with my physiotherapist scheduled for this afternoon. He asked me to bring my running shoes this time because he wants to watch me run on the treadmill. Barring something miraculous, though, I’m afraid I’ll just be lurching along on it now. Not sure what he will be able to gauge from that, unless it’s…

“Wow. You run like a complete spaz, Carla. No wonder you hurt yourself.”

His name is Dave and he was recommended to me by the local chi running instructor, who told me that Dave treats a number of runners in town. See, I had been advised to find a physiotherapist who is also either a runner, him/herself, or is, at least, running-friendly. I was told to try to stay away from a “Negative Nellie”-type who would just try to talk me out of running instead of wanting to help me get back out there. Upon meeting Dave, I immediately realized that he was an excellent choice for me: he understands my frustration and clearly wants to help me get back out doing what I enjoy doing. He has a warm manner and a good sense of humour and a strong but gentle touch. (Starved as I am for that sorta thing, I’ll take what little I can find wherever I can find it, heh-heh!) I have had two appointments with Dave so far… At the first appointment, he confirmed the layman’s diagnosis I had gotten from a friend and I learned, in addition, that my left hip (the troublesome side) is actually a little higher than my right hip. (Which made me feel a little freakish until two of my running friends said that they have one hip higher than the other too. Then they said

“Gooble gobble, we accept you! Gooble gobble, one of us!”

…which sorta creeped me out, truth be told.) Because of disuse after the strain and the amount of time I spend sitting at my desk and in my car, the hip flexor muscle had shortened which, in turn, had pulled my left hip tight. Hence, the limping. Dave worked on my hips during that first visit and showed me some stretches I could do to lengthen the hip flexor back to normal and to loosen the hip joints. And now I dutifully do my stretching in the morning and at night and throughout the workday whenever I have the washroom to myself at the office. At the second appointment, Dave worked on my tight upper back and showed me some exercises to strengthen my core muscles. Coincidentally or not, these are the same muscles whose fitness is integral to chi running. He was able to explain to me where they were what it felt like to “engage” them, so I finally sorta “get” that part of the chi running technique. He showed me how I could work on them while I was sitting here at my desk.

In fact, I’m doing that right now. And hopefully I’m doing it correctly, ‘cause I sure as hell don’t wanna accidentally spill my chi all over the place. That would surely leave an embarrassing stain.

Oh, how I want this t-shirt!

There are actually some advantages that I can associate with being stupendously nearsighted without my glasses. F’r'instance… if there was anybody pointing and laughing at me in my shiny new swim cap and goggles as I swam laps over at the Y on Monday night, I sure as hell couldn’t see ‘em. I am happy to remain blissfully ignorant of any public humiliation I might’ve foisted on myself by wearing that goofy getup.

I joined the Y last week. My first visit practically blinded me.

I got the “plus” membership so I could use the private women’s change room with the towel service and the private saunas–both wet and dry–and whirlpool. I went over for the first time last Friday and swam some laps and then had a hot whirlpool afterward and everything was fine until I got home. (Actually, no–everything was fine until I walked outside to get to my car afterward and the arctic chill that settled in over Ontario that day hit me like a pool cue between the eyes and froze my wet hair solid in about 9.5 seconds.) When I got home 5 minutes later (shivering, cursing) and got a look in the mirror, I saw that my eyes looked like two cherries and they felt like they were on fire. I’ve never seen them that bloodshot. And considering the hangovers I’d had over the years, that’s saying something. Now, I had certainly noticed that the pool seemed über-chlorinated while I was swimming, but didn’t expect such a violent reaction. I’ve been a lifelong swimmer, and have been privileged to grow up in a home that has had a pool for most of my life.

(Incidentally, my parents got the pool because of something that happened to me…

One summer day when I was around 10, I had been swimming at the beach all day and I awoke late that night unable to open my eyes. They were caked shut because of some sort of infection I’d gotten from swimming in Lake Huron. This meant a middle-of-the-night visit to the emergency room–and I can actually still remember this, including the alarming ride there in the car when I couldn’t open my eyes and then the spastic nurse who couldn’t find a vein and hadda stab me umptyfuck times before she was able to deliver the antibiotic to my system. The hole for our family’s first pool was dug shortly thereafter.)

So my experience with public pools is limited to swimming lessons when I was a kid and a few years of using one when I lived in Tronna. Never had any particular problem with over-chlorination. ‘Til now.

On Friday night, I wanted to claw my eyes outta my head–no, rather: it felt like they had been clawed outta my head–because they were so abused by the chlorine. Tears were pouring outta them as I tried to keep them open *blink* *blink* *blink* and my nose was running in sympathy. I was a drippy, miserable mess. Quite a sight, I’m sure. For anybody else, that is–’cause I sure as hell couldn’t see much. I sat at this machine, kvetching and moaning to a pal in Tronna who was trying his best to comfort me and give me suggestions of things to try. Thanks to him, at one point, I was standing over the sink in my washroom, bathing first one eye then the other in a paper Dixie cup of mildly salty water that I had pressed up to my face. My shirt was soaked–first with tears, then with the salt water bath. It did seem to help a little, though. And it did give me brief pause to laugh at my predicament, squinting up at myself in the mirror, á la Mr. Magoo.

“You need to get a pair of goggles and a swim cap,” my Tronna pal tells me when I feel my way back to this fugbox. I accept that the goggles are (o!b!v!i!o!u!s!l!y!) a good idea, but I balk at the swim cap–only because of a deep and abiding fear of public humiliation.

(Speaking of my fear of public humiliation, d’I ever tell you one of my greatest fears is that I might throw up in public? I would just die on the spot if I were sober enough to realize what was happening. Thankfully, the only times it’s ever happened do not fit that particular description. I heard about it later, though, I assure you. Over and over, as a matter of fact. From my oh-so-considerate friends. Yes, you know who you are, Frank.)

So, anyway… Let’s just put aside the possibility that some psychotherapy might be helpful and get back to the story… My pal insists that I should wear a swim cap unless I am willing to put up with hair like straw because of the chlorine. Er, well… No, I don’t want that. Ugh, what have I gotten myself into? It seemed like such a good idea at the time (as so many things do!) when I joined the Y and planned to use the pool.

On Saturday, my eyes were no longer sore but one of ‘em was all puffed up for most of the day. I didn’t stray far from home (CREF - the aforementioned public humiliation bugaboo). I even cancelled a planned weekend jaunt to Tronna to see a free show by The New Pornographers at Nathan Phillips Square. That was just another one of those “seemed like a good idea at the time” thangs, anyway–”the time” being a month and a half ago, when the show was announced, and Ontario was enjoying a (suspiciously) mild winter. Admittedly, however, the aforementioned arctic chill had more to do with cancelling those plans than the fact that I looked like Quasimodo’s sister on Saturday (not just because of the eye but because I was limping)(the limp is a whole other story, though–don’t get me started!).

On Sunday, puffiness past, I harrumphed and went out to find a swim cap and a pair of goggles. The goggles were easy. The cap… well, there are just so many c!o!o!l! and f!l!a!t!t!e!r!i!n!g! and oh, not humiliating in the least styles out there! Just look:

G’wan–guess which style I chose.

Went back to the Y on Monday. Donned cap and goggles and swam laps. No nasty aftereffects this time and no clue (hence, no humiliation) if anybody was pointing and laughing at my dorkitude.

Incidentally, speaking of public humiliation (or the lack thereof), it seems that most other women use the private whirlpool totally, fearlessly nekkid. Which strikes me as another advantage to being stupendously nearsighted without my glasses.