I’ve hurt myself. Not a cut or bruise; that’s usual. I’ve seriously hurt myself for the first time ever. Someone who has never broken a bone or had any sort of surgery in her life.
I fell. HARD. And x-rays show that while I haven’t broken anything, I’ve suffered a contusion. On my tailbone. And it HURTS.
And doing what, pray tell? Some fun, extreme sport? Running or hiking in nature? No. I was simply demonstrating wall sits to my sister. We were discussing squats, and different exercises, and I wanted to demonstrate a ‘wall sit’. It was early morning (7am, before coffee, before work), and I had *just* put on socks. This is an important detail, as my sister has new, slick laminate hardwood flooring. I just finished saying “I should probably not do this after just putting on socks…”; which I thought acknowledged that I understood the safety risk and was about to be super careful with my balance. No sooner had I made the statement & put my arms outstretched in front of me, did my feet sliiide out from underneath me & I came down. On my tailbone. Auuuuggghh.
My sister, visibly alarmed, came running up to me but did not touch me. I just laid there for a bit, and somehow crawled my way onto the plush carpeting of the living room. Where I laid in the fetal position until the initial pain subsided.
In asking me some questions, my sister determined I had a contusion. This is a word I didn’t know; but she said it just means a more serious bruise. I eventually found myself being X-rayed because the doctor I went to see decided to press against my tailbone saying “Does this hurt?”. Instead of a yes or no, I squealed in pain. She called for an X-ray. Turns out my sister was right.
That was Thursday. It is now Wednesday. I still hurt. Sitting in a car hurts. Bending down hurts. Needless to say, I have been dropping everything this week. With no one around to bend down & pick the item up for me. I went to scan my badge at my workplace entry, and DROPPED MY BADGE. Ugh. Beeeeennnnding down slowly is a struggle. I was standing in line at TSA, prepared for the security with my boarding pass & driver’s license in hand. And dropped my driver’s license. I have always been a vocal person, so of course there’s an “Auuuuggghhhh” as I slooooowly bend down to try to pick up this completely flat object that is laying against the floor.
I get that I didn’t break a bone still. I get that I am very blessed to have health insurance to go see a doctor, and have the medical facility have an x-ray machine right there for an instant diagnosis. I am very blessed to have the resources available to me. My work even allows me to work from home. Here’s my (admittedly first-world) problem: I can’t workout.
For me, working out is a stress reliever. I will sweat on the elliptical or treadmill; and I can *feel* all the toxins leaving my body. All the stresses of the day leave my body in that sweat. I am energized and feel this combination of happiness/strength. My mood is elevated. I do Pilates, and feel a sense of calm & confidence. I feel like I can take on whatever the world throws at me next. I’m READY.
But this time, this time is different. I’m about to go to South Beach, Miami in 3 weeks. My BFFs and I turn 40 this year. We’ve never gone away together, even though in our 20s, we always said that when we’re older & in our own worlds, we will take the time to vacation together to stay connected. These are my soul sistas. I love these girls, and they understand me. This is rare in life to find someone who understands you; may not always agree with you, but will stand by your side.
I’ve never been to Miami before. What I know of Miami is that J-Lo lives there, and people basically wear tube tops as both top & bottom. LOL.
The plan was to be in shape for the beach & the dance clubs. I’ve gained like 10 lbs in the last 6 months, and wanted to at least drop some of that.
This is my major discontentment with my injury. Not the struggle, the pain, the constant soreness. But that I can’t workout. Not just for my mental sanity, but for the shallowest of reasons. At least I can admit that.
But geez, turning 40, and taking longer to heal is a pain. Literally.