One down, seven to go.
Seven weeks of wearing a gargantuan medical walking boot because I have and teensy-eensy tiny li'l stress fracture on the top of my foot. Prior to seeking medical help, my foot hurt only when I exercised. And for a little while after I exercised. Other than that, no problems.
I'm trying to lower my cholesterol and live slightly healthier. Towards that end, the only lifestyle change I've managed to embrace is exercise. I actually like it. Even looked forward to it, vaguely. (Actually, what I enjoy is listening to audio books while I'm walking. Before the boot I was in the middle of the first Dexter novel. Luckily I have a long drive coming up in April and I'll be able to finish it off. So to speak.)
Every morning for years I have worked out for at least half an hour. Lately I added a three mile walk in the evenings. That was all well and good until I added in a bit of jogging. Quite honestly, Baptists should have foregone the anti-dance crusade and gone with an anti-jog crusade. Jogging has to be a more devilish form of movement than dancing. I, for one, feel certain that people are closer to hellfire and damnation when jogging than when dancing. Joggers are Satan's bobble-heads.
So, anyway, I wanted to keep exercising, so I figured I should get my injury treated.
And now I'm stuck in this boot for two months. The boot makes my foot hurt worse. I've finally figured out the reasoning behind the treatment. It's not that the boot is beneficial per se, it's that it is so cumbersome and uncomfortable that you'd just as soon sit as walk, so you stay off your foot and that gives it time to heal.
As you can imagine, this has played hell with my cardio plan. I still go to the "gym" in the mornings. It's actually the physical therapy department at the surprisingly vibrant little local hospital. Since I can't walk, run, flail about on the elliptical machine or wedgie myself with the stationary bike, I have been lifting weights - mostly dumbbells.
This morning I graduated from the sissy weights (color coordinated, rubber coated rods which only went up to 9 pounds) to the bad-ass weights (grimy iron dumbbells on a steel rack that make your palms smell funny and have a minimum heft of 15 pounds). I managed to do all the same exercises with the heavier free weights.
And now I think I am going to die.
However, despite the moans and groans, my morning workout compadres all agreed that they would not want to take me on in a fist fight. They were also nice enough not to point out that all they'd have to do to win the fight is step out of arm's reach. Regardless, that was the encouragement I needed to get me back there tomorrow.
Even if I can't lift my arms and have to just sit there and stare at the barbells.