The Miracle of the Racquet Ball
Our Lady Queen of Pain has repeatedly encouraged me to use a racquet ball on my back, piriformis and hip flexors. I dutifully go home clutching my new toy and do everything as instructed. For, like, a day.
I wake.
“You should find that racquet ball and roll and stretch,” Brain says.
“You should shut up until I have coffee,” I reply.
“A tad touchy today, eh?” Brain replies, not realizing it’s very very close to a near death experience.
“Shut. Up. I have to feed cat.”
While I’m downstairs feeding the cat I might as well check email. Oh – look at that cute kitten pic on FB! HAHAHA that’s funny, better tag Sallysue in that one, she loves vodka.
Three days later Brain remembers it was successfully distracted in under a minute. (yes, I’m just that good.)
“Remember – you should find that racquet ball and roll & stretch,” Brain pops up. Brain is like a Whack a Mole game. And I’d pay money to whack it.
I sigh. I know Brain is right. I go directly to the drawer in which I firmly promised myself I would place the ball every time and immediately after using it. Here’s a surprise: it’s not there (never saw that coming, huh?) A thorough search of the house revealed that I need to vacuum and dust. I could knit a friend for Chunk.
Never, ever make the mistake of thinking you can outwit Brain. Brain was right, I should have been rolling and stretching – and what you get for being a lazy smart ass is eventually waking with muscle spasms in your butt and hamstrings. Last Sunday morning I was jerking like Pinocchio on strings. We went to church and I sat there twitching and jumping, my leg kicking forward spasmodically as though it had Tourette’s. Fellow pew mates appeared frightened that any minute I was going to start running down the aisle with a tambourine screaming PRAIZE JAYZUSS ALL-LAY-LOO-YAH!!! To put it mildly, we do. not. do. that. in my church.
Monday I had a visit scheduled with the chiro and then back to visit Our Lady Queen of Pain, whom you may also know as The Exorcist but I’ve decided to elevate her status. Just because it’s my blog so I can do that. I can do whatever I like on my blog. nanner nanner boo-boo. For instance, if I wanted, I could do this:
Nope, that clip is entirely too small.
Oh, that’s better then. AND HE’S RUNNING! And I blog about RUNNING! omg!!!! Probably someday Daniel Craig will google himself and this picture will pop up connected to my blog and he’ll read my blog and start following it. Probably he’ll post comments too. This is awesome. I’m really excited now and for just a moment there I forgot my butt hurts.
“um, Terri?” queries Brain.
“SHIT. WHAT?”
“You need to quit staring at Daniel Craig and finish your blog. Both of your faithful followers of your World Famous Blog have been sitting in front of their computers for hours waiting for the end.”
Ah. Good point, sorry –
Our Lady of Joe Lewis worked me over for about 3 hours and sent me home with the admonition to use the racquet ball. This time, I believed her. I’m really hopeful none of our neighbors can ever see into our hallway where I position myself 2-3 times a day cramming that ball up into my piriformis, then rolling back and forth against the wall with the ball between my hip flexors and the wall, stopping and grimacing every 1/2 inch while I count to 20 and attempt to breathe.
Ouch.
Wednesday I ran two very slow miles. Nothing hurt! ALLELUIA! (don’t sing that in the neighborhood while you’re running. For some reason dogs hate that song and howl really loudly).
It’s a slow journey, I did three miles yesterday and felt it a bit in the last mile. I felt good this morning so I did five and to hell with it, and since then I’ve had some electricity smacking me around from my butt to my calf. I’ll roll on the ball and see Our Lady tomorrow. I’ll stretch and I’ll keep trying to figure it out and I’ll be damned if I give up.
Just to add a bit of incentive, I recorded the women’s Olympic marathon this morning. After dinner I’ll sit on my ice and do the rolling/stretching thing while I watch, knowing those ladies hurt far worse than I do.
