It hurts to be beautiful...

I went to high school with a girl who was born with severe arthritis. She couldn’t participate in any sports and had a permanent limp. Without minimalizing what she went through, today I look like her.

I can hardly walk, going up stairs in difficult and walking down them is sheer torture. Going into la toilette and attempting to plant my little ass on the seat takes leverage, planning and clenched teeth.

What did I do to harm my body so? I exercised. Sure, some people may decide at the drop of a hat to go run a marathon. *cough*bitch*cough* (read: I am jealous) I am NOT one of those people.

I, not that long ago, used to run every morning, push myself to limit, and love every minute of it (once I was done). As I now don’t have someone seeing me naked everyday, someone who rides bikes competitively, someone who shags for so long that riding him sometimes felt like I was in a marathon… I haven’t necessarily been driven to run that extra hill, do that next set of stairs… or honestly get my feet in my running shoes and ass out the door.

I used to arise bright and early at 5:25 every morning, no external alarm clock needed, I would just know to get up, throw on the shoes, and mosey my ass up the hill down the street from my house. Times have, unfortunately, been a changin’…

Knowing that in a short time someone will be seeing nekked OCG and I will need all the riding power available (in addition to not being so stoked to the reflection that excess chocolate and Christmas cookies seems to have provided) I have been getting up a couple times a week over the last few weeks to once again strap one those running shoes, and get my ass in gear.

In addition to feeling better, starting my morning running in the sand while the waves crash in is a humbling reminder to start one’s day.

Near my house we have 1000 Steps Beach, aptly named due to the ever-so-steep stairs that lead down to it. There aren’t 1000 steps, closer to 300, but they are quite steep and standing at the top of them, one is unable to see to the bottom. (Please note, since the time the below photo was taken “artists” (read: kids with paint and markers) have decorated the vertical part of each stair, providing a slur of ample reading material while on the way up).



Saturday my roomie, LJ, asked if I wanted to do the stairs with her. Of course I did. I used to do 7-8 flights on weekend mornings as well as after work during the week. So Saturday morning I arose hungover free (I haven’t drank in over a week…) and headed to the stairs with LJ. One of LJ’s girlfriends does the stair-machine at the gym (I have never attempted the gym version as I do believe that I lack the coordination and would thus cause irreparable damage) for 20 minutes everyday. Her friend got two sets (down and back up = one set) of 1000 steps completed and could do no more when she was here a few weeks ago.

Being competitive with others as well as myself, I completed five sets… true not as many as I used to do, but I wasn’t disappointed with that number either. I return promptly to the car, got on my phone, and headed out to do some Christmas shopping and grab some coffee. I felt great.

Until yesterday morning. I omitted this little (read: important) step in the process called stretching. I stretched my hamstrings afterwards, but then I realized I had a hole in the crotch of my pants (yes TMI), so I stopped and headed immediately to my car. Genius, I know. Thus for the past 36 hours my calves and quads have hated me.

I spent yesterday Christmas shopping, (can one still say “Christmas shopping” if one may have purchased more for herself than for others?) hobbling like some special needs person from store to store. Glorious, really.

Today I sit at my desk. My only current exercise being the arduous task of sucking the filling out of these yummy chocolate truffles before devouring the scrumptious thicker outer shell.

Exercise is so overrated.