Injury. I don’t think there is a dirtier word in the English language. It has so much weight behind it that when you hear it, it feels like John Henry hitting you in the chest with his sledgehammer.
So few things in life remain the same; you lose a job, get a job, move to a different city, make new friends, forget old ones. The one constant for me has been exercise. I’m not some meathead or a someone who weighs their food to make sure they don’t put on an extra quarter pound, which would translate into carrying an extra 6.5 pounds in a marathon. I’m just a guy who likes to run and lift weights. I feel like exercise is a fundamental part of being human.
As I write this, there is a dull pain in my left foot. I’ve felt it before. I know what it is. I’m in denial now, but am soon moving on to acceptance. It’s a stress fracture. It’s not a huge deal. I’ll stay away from running for a week or two, but damn it. Not being able to take off and run for a half hour is depressing, it’s like loosing some freedom, stuck in a prison of my own making.
Normally I’d transition into some weightlifting but I hurt my right shoulder while moving into my new apartment. I sit here a broken man, unable to lighten my burden through my typical means. These are the times when I want to smoke. I need some stress release, some way of getting outside of myself for a while. I don’t even think I could make it through a Yoga routine without aggravating one of my injuries.
Now I play the waiting game. I sit, and I wait. Which will give first, my need to find relief, a.k.a, drinking too much on a week night, then walk to the gas station to buy a pack of cigarettes. A decision I’ll regret only after I’ve smoked half the pack over the course of several days. Or will my injuries heal quick enough that whatever stress I develop can be held inside without rupturing. I’m not sure. I’m praying for the latter but expecting the former, and this is the first day (Jan. 19, 2010) I’ll miss a scheduled run. It’s going to be a long few weeks.