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Archive for the tag “Structural Integration”

Blahging

Weather.com and DirecTV got divorced, did you know?  If you ever visit weather.com you’d know, it’s still whining about it like a 16-year-old getting dumped for the first time (not to negate that experience, it feels like your heart got torn out sans meds) but it’s a TV STATION doing BUSINESS, not a teenage girl.  But, then, and as you know, I don’t like weather.com.

Well, Terri, you continue to visit weather.com, don’t you?

Why, yes, I do.  And I’m irritated every single time.  Partly because it’s still the best site I can find for quick weather info.  Details, go to NOAA.gov, but a quick and dirty look, it’s still the fall back.  Plus, just when I’m about to try dating someone else – again – weather.com hits my funny bone which is a quick way to my heart.  This morning w.c announces dryly:

16°F
FEELS LIKE 16°
Much colder than yesterday.

HAHAHAHA!  No kidding?  OK then, I didn’t know.  Sixteen is more than 28, at least in weather world.

you know it's cold.

I told you so

Since I’m still feeling rather blah and it appears my batteries are mostly run out I’m not planning to run today.  I’m not sad that I can’t run in this cold, since it’s much colder than yesterday but it does bug me I’m losing bragging rights.  Yeah, I ran when it was 16, no big.  I’m tough, that’s how I roll.  I ran it in shorts and a jog bra.  Barefoot.  Because that’s how I roll, too.

I’m lying.

No one is ever going to see me running in just shorts and a jog bra.  If the house is on fire I will wait inside.  No, really, I’m fine, thank you Mr. Fireman, can I borrow your shirt?

Nope, the Cold from Hell lingers like a creepy ex-boyfriend determined that deep in my heart I really do want him to take me to Prom.  Yes, you’re taking my breath away but not quite the way you’re hoping.

This morning I saw Lucia, who does Structural Integration.  She is even tinier than Killer, which should be impossible for an adult but there you go, and she’s just as nice as Killer too.  You wouldn’t think about 100 pounds of female could do much damage but she’s like a Ninja trained in all the secret spots that will take you DOWN.  Last week was very interesting.  I had some muscles that were being stubborn (where the hell they got that from, I don’t know) and about half way through she said, “you may need to take nap today.”

OK.  That’s sort of like a doctor’s order, right?  I’m going to have to take a nap today.  I was instructed to.  It’s legal.  Nanner nanner.

Turns out it wasn’t optional.  I got home and thought I was getting the flu even though I actually got the flu shot this year.

I’m kidding.  I get the shot every year.

(No I don’t, I just put that there in case Hubs ever reads my blog.)  (He asks me about 13 times every fall did I get a flu shot.)  (It’s really sweet of him, too.)

(Words in parentheses are invisible, right?)

I didn’t feel so good.  Next thing I knew, I was on the bed in a t-shirt, sweat-shirt, bathrobe and sweatpants, shivering like Murphy at the vet’s.  Good thing the house didn’t decide to combust because I was going nowhere quickly.  My legs were like Jello at a Mississippi picnic in July.

An hour or so later when I was able to stand (albeit shakily) I chugged about 72 ounces of water while swallowing down one or two of every vitamin I could find in the house.  Then I looked up Toxins.  Wow, you do learn something new every day.  And now I understand why we are so very sore the day after a marathon or intense training.  Fascinating.

Today I asked Lucia if that had anything to do with Beelzebub coming to torment me; she thought probably so.  She worked me over like a pro boxer again and sent me home, taller and straighter.  She said she did not release any demons today.  So far I’m feeling good.  I’m even tempted to go for a little run.

Or a nap.

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Just a little flesh wound.

You can make dinner while standing on one foot but I would not recommend you do so while stirring the popping spaghetti sauce, ouch.

But it’s OK, just a little flesh wound.

Seriously, just a little pop of boiling spaghetti sauce on my arm, I’d rate it point-zero-one on a 1-10 scale.  I had a conversation with a friend one time, discussing another friend with terminal cancer whose stated pain level was 9 or 10.  We considered for a while.  How bad can 10 feel?  We all know 11 is one louder, however the pain scale only goes to 10 so it took a while for us to develop a new pain scale:

1 – my head hurts

2 – my head hurts like a little man inside is pounding it with a little hammer

3 – I’d like to get that little man out of my head and kick his a$$

4 – the little man in my head is using a jackhammer

5 – the little man in my head has a friend helping him

6 – the little man in my head and his friend are close to breaking through

7 – the little man in my head and his friend have broken through my skull and are now dancing in my eyeballs in celebration

8 – the little man in my head and his friend who broke through and did the celebration dance are now stabbing my eyeballs

9 – the little man in my head and his friend who broke through, danced and then stabbed my eyeballs just set my hair on fire …

10. … and … now they just tore my arms off.

Lately I have had ample opportunity to answer the question “Please rate your pain on a scale of one to ten.”  It’s a conundrum.  My ten could be your 20.  Or it could be your 3.  Maybe pain scales should note that a 10 means someone just sliced off both your arms but if you consider it just a flesh wound please choose 2. I ponder what number to choose on my current pain level.

I had my first two children sans medication.  It was the thing to do for some reason.  Don’t take an aspirin, just breathe deeply, you can do this.  So, I did.  I was alone in a room, waiting for something to happen, four weeks early with my girl child.  The woman in the room next to me screamed.  OMGOD HELP  HELP ME SOMEONE HELP MAKE IT STOP.  I was fairly sure someone was actually in the room with her who could help and it appeared they were either refusing or she’d made them promise to do nothing no matter how she begged.

Let me out. Let me out of here. Get me the hell out of here. What’s the matter with you people? I was joking! Don’t you know a joke when you hear one? HA-HA-HA-HA. (*@#$$, get me out of here! Open this $%&%# door or I’ll kick your rotten heads in! Mommy!

Hour after hour I was there, alone, with a couple of Home & Garden magazines to peruse which, by the way and to this day, I hate.  As I repeatedly gazed at gardens that would never grace my home I promised myself – if there was one thing in my life I was going to make sure would happen it was this:  I was not going to make a sound whenever girl child decided to appear.  Tear my nails out, I don’t care, I am not going to make noises that can be heard through walls by unsuspecting, lonely and frightened people.

So – I’ve had levels of pain but pain is complicated by duration, exacerbated by sudden stabbings or electricity jolting through muscles and who knows how much pain it really was, it’s different for everyone.  I’m gratefully past all that, again, and want to remain that way.  I will continue to strive to finally, totally defeat the current issue. Which brings me to stirring boiling spaghetti sauce while balancing on one foot.

Dr. W, as you both know, has been fantastic help since the first of the year and will remain forever my hero since my back did not spasm for three months as it did a few years ago – even without Butt Falling Off Syndrome that alone is enough to put him on the top shelf with all the really big trophies.  Yesterday I tried something new –  Structural Integration – and … just … wow.  I hurt this morning, but it’s a good hurt, ach-y in my neck and shoulders and oddly (because I never do so) I find myself stretching as I walk to the Shrine Of Keurig or sit at my desk, rolling my shoulders and head, and it feels good, looser.

I suppose most people who show up bruised and battered at Lucia’s office are pretty dorked up, I know that she didn’t seem to see much of me that wasn’t torqued one direction or the other.  She started from the bottom up and the first thing she asked me was if I’d badly sprained my ankle at some time in my life.  Yes, indeed I did, 6 months pregnant with the twins I fell stepping into the garage, the Goodyear Blimp of motherhood, landing awkwardly.  The ER doctor said I’d have been better off if it had broken and indeed, it hurt for most of a year if I moved wrong.  Side note:  a fat pregnant woman hopping through the house and office on one foot is pathetic and frightens innocent bystanders who fear the hopping could jolt loose a child.  It didn’t.

She rotated my left foot, then my right and suddenly I realized that my left foot seems to be attached very loosely by about 2 worn out rubber bands, flopping slightly as I stride, the right foot landing firmly while the left foot rolls to the outside before deciding to embrace earth.  Who knew?  Apparently just because the brains and I live in this body does not mean anyone is actually taking charge at the helm, and also apparently my left foot has been flopping about for 25 years refusing to carry its load, thank you foot, I’ll remember that at Christmas, coal in the stocking for you.  In the meantime we will be spending a lot of time, you and me, standing on you without the assistance of right foot.  But no longer will we do so in front of a roiling saucepan.

When I see them Dr. W and Lucia give me instructions, which I then carry carefully to Killer, who assists me in planking and squatting and lunging and monster-walking because in addition to no one firmly at the helm I’m also irresponsible and do not self-motivate properly.  Yes, yes, I nod, slavering happily, yessir, Dr. W, yes ma’am Lucia I’ll plank, I will balance on the BOSU ball, yep yep I skip about in their offices like a puppy but already Brain has seen a chicken and run off after it.

So I thank you, Dr. W, and Lucia, and Killer, and all of you in service industries who help people who are hurting, sick, in need.  I only have aches and pains, I do not have terminal cancer but I did watch my father die day-by-day for a year and I know who the caregivers are – givers because they care.  You are all very special people and I thank you all for making this world a better place while I sit at the computer answering emails and hanging around my watercooler named Facebook, posting pictures of cute kittens, unicorns and zombies.  You rock.

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