Run. Dog. Cat. Cat. Me.

Everything you need to know about running and life and any other random crap I find bouncing through my mind like a ping pong ball. And always be sure your shoes are happy.

In which we learn why a 56 year old woman was at the grocery in compression shorts.

This morning I headed out and the first mile felt fine – other than like a death march after all the busy-ness of Sunday – but really, what’s new about that?  All of us feel that way by the middle of July, right?  Finished the warm up, headed out on the next mile and *ouch* my left quad hurt.  It hurt on the lift in every stride, rather like I had a tennis ball sized bruise that was being hit.  I slowed and finally walked.  I got my (cold) water bottle and rolled the quad, did some stretching – headed out – nope.  From the first stride, hurt.

I hadn’t felt anything pop, stretch, or pull, but there was a definite issue.  I didn’t want to get too bummed and negative, but I kinda was.  I’m just getting back into shape and running regularly and now this.  But I’ve made up my mind:  things happen; more things will happen the more you’ve had a chance to live, and you need to roll with it, Terrilee.  To paraphrase Demosthenes, I decided it was better to not fight, and not run, and live to run another day so I bagged it.  I texted a running buddy who said she thought muscle strain – rest, no running for two days, ice – you know the drill.  That was pretty much what I thought too, it feels like a strain.

I figured a good thing to do is provide the area some support.  I have a great pair of compression shorts that my Barbie doll used to wear and thought that could be a good thing.  Compression shorts.  Those should certainly help provide support.

Earlier I had been bummed not only because I didn’t get my run but because I’d made potato salad yesterday.  I was counting on burning a few extra calories to make room for a second helping of potato salad and cutting the run short by about 4/5’s meant about 4/5’s less potato salad (very sad face).

I soon realized, however, that the incredible struggle of getting the compression shorts on would certainly make up for some of that loss as I sat on the bed to put them on, stood and tried to pull them up.  Glued to my calves, I vainly attempted to grab any bit of the tightly compressed fabric with my fingers to give a tug.  Several nails broke and the fabric remained intact.  I painfully worked a fingertip between the fabric and my skin as it took on a blueish tinge.  Slowly and awkwardly I inched the fabric up.  Standing on one foot, my finger held prisoner between fabric and skin, I began to teeter – forward – backward – I attempted to stop the fall as I lurched about the room like a drunken Frankenstein and Chunk watched in fascinated horror from behind the curtains, one eye peeping out.  Finally getting most of the shorts above my knees I grabbed the waistband and waltzed about the room desperately trying to pull them further up by jumping up and down in the frankly ridiculous hope that jumping would somehow help.  Rather like trying to cram your size 10 foot into Cinderella’s slipper.

Finally, sweating and exhausted, the compression shorts were pretty much where they were supposed to be.  I laid down for a few minutes trying to catch my breath.  This was not an easy thing to do as my diaphragm was severely compromised by an aggressive waistband which, when first removed from the packaging, was 6″ in diameter.

At this point I realized I cannot actually bend to sit up because every time I do the waistband springs into action, rolling itself into a little tube around my middle and effectively cutting me in half, shoving the top part of my overindulging-in-potato-salad-excess UP and the bottom part DOWN.  I now look like a balloon figure at the circus, twisted tightly in the middle and sausages at each end.

Man, I really hope I don’t have to pee today.  It really sucks I did all that hydrating earlier this morning.

AHhhhhh.  DAMMIT.  I’ve got to go to the store.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooo!” screams Brain.

“Um, yeah, Brain, sorry.  You’re the one who kept nagging me to hydrate.  Now we’re out of toilet paper.”

“FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF@##,” Brain screams.

“You know, Brain, I’ve noticed you have a tendancy to cuss when you don’t care to deal with an issue.”

“I f*&^’ing DO NOT!” exclaimed Brain.

I told Brain I was tired of arguing and we went to the store.

Every summer the kids who work in the produce department get younger.  It’s summer, it’s school vacation time and I guess the theory is they are old enough to drive and have a summer job and take girls out on dates or something, if that’s anything they even still do.  But these kids look like they’re about 12, or they’re using Nair on their faces or something.  Babyfaced peach skinned little children are walking around pushing carts full of guavas and stocking tomatoes.  Their parents should be arrested.  Aren’t there any child labor laws in effect any longer??

Brain and I scurry into the store hoping no one will see us.  You know how it goes.  You just mowed the lawn and washed the dog, you’re out of milk, you’ve got on a bikini top under a torn t-shirt and 18 year old running shorts with paint on them and a hole in the butt, you run to the corner store and your Priest is damn certain gong to be standing there buying a Coke.

We were moving fast, we were stealth, when suddenly one of those produce-stocking innocents looked up and saw me, squished in half, white flesh bulging, eyes bulging, gasping for air.  I think his (obviously unconcerned about his welfare) parents have probably been letting him watch far too much of “Walking Dead” as he seemed to mouth the word “Walkers” and fell in a dead faint.

I texted a quick picture to my blog before the cops got there in case it was the last thing I was able to do as a free woman and I needed some type of proof of my innocence.

The poor child was helped to a chair by co-workers.  Avoiding all eye contact and apparently wishing desperately for a baseball bat with which to bash me, he stammered and muttered that he did not want to press charges, that he just wanted me to Go. Away. and also that “I quit”.

They did let me buy the toilet paper but I noticed, as I left the store, a hastily scribbled sign noting “NO SHIRT NO SHOES NO SERVICE.  COMPRESSION SHORTS: SORRY STORE IS OUT OF BUSINESS”

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6 thoughts on “In which we learn why a 56 year old woman was at the grocery in compression shorts.

  1. So, when I wear compression shorts or torn t-shirts, no makeup and wild hair and head to my grocery store, I run into friends/people I can no longer consider my friends because they have now seen me looking THAT BAD. At least that poor child will take a job elsewhere now, and you won’t have to worry about showing your face there in the future.

    Glass half-full, my friend. ; )

    I hope your quads get all nice and rested. (Maybe the bobcat scared them?)

    • I’m always disappointed, when I do see people I know while looking like a Walking Dead cast member, that they recognize me. Maybe when I’m thinking I’m looking all fine, I don’t actually look all that much better…
      Yes, the glass is half full and that also upsets me because now, who has been stealing my WINE??

  2. Haha! Love it!

    1. One of my friend’s excuses for not running the Boston Marathon was that she strained her back while putting on her Spanx.

    2. I feel this way when I put on my wetsuit. Undoubtedly I cut my swim in half because of the energy I’ve expended on suctioning my wetsuit on.

    • I can see it! I strained mine sitting down in my car. OMG, 12 weeks of spasms like electricity in my back. It gave me so much more understanding of older people, why their houses get dirty, they don’t pick things up, etc.
      I’ve watched my hubs get into the wet suit and now that I’ve remembered that little mental movie, it makes my compression shorts issue quite minor…
      😉

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