Against every fiber of my being, I've been exercising. Nothing as major as going to the gym, mind you, which requires not only willpower, but also a babysitter; for those of you without kids, babysitters are expensive (but totally worth it. Especially if one of my babysitters is reading this right now.).
Instead, I've been exercising at home, doing all that I can for a tired, single mom who is NOT a morning person (and as such, is completely unmotivated to do anything immediately upon waking--including waking up.)
But motivation is not my only foe. Also working against me is my kid, who a) refuses to go to bed early enough (i.e., before 9:30 p.m.) for me to walk on my treadmill in the garage, and b) is terrified of being alone in the house, even though I have patiently explained 5,893 times that I am just in the garage, a mere 10 feet away from him. (Strangely, this fear is not reciprocal--he has no problem practicing his drums in the garage while I am in the house.)
He remains unconvinced, however, which means I have to get off the treadmill at least 5 times to explain there are no monsters under his bed, or ghosts in the house. The whole thing is just completely...counterproductive.
Anyway...I did finally find a solution--a small pedaling machine that simulates a stationary bike. I can use it indoors and it doesn't take up all the space in my living room. As an added bonus, I can use it while watching TV, and then hide it behind my couch. Folks, we had a winner!
So that's what I've been doing, riding my little fake bike every night, and feeling pretty good about myself. What did not feel good, and in fact, was feeling worse with alarming regularity, was my knee.
And being the hardcore workout nut that I am now, I did what any other athlete in training would do--I ignored the pain. I actually told myself, "No pain, no gain," and then I distracted myself by watching a TV show about hand-fishing for catfish.
Well, my knee didn't like that. It gradually got worse until last week, I couldn't even walk on it. I ditched the tough-guy attitude and purchased a pair of crutches. So much for silently sucking it up.
I thought the crutches might at least garner a little sympathy for my busted knee, but no go. Mark immediately swiped them, and whipped around the house, showing me how much better he was at using crotches. (Not a typo. That's middle school humor at its finest.) The only thing more depressing than having to use crotches--err, crutches--is not being able to because your son is outside hitting tennis balls with them. Or sideswiping you with them in the hallway after yelling, "LOOK OUT!"
Well, maybe the doctor would be sympathetic. Or...maybe not.
He rotated my knee like an old-fashioned radio dial for exactly two seconds before informing me I have runner's knee.
"Except..." he said, giving me a once-over, and realizing I wasn't exactly the runner type. "Well, we won't call it runner's knee in your case."
And that's the first time someone has literally added insult to my injury.
I finally found some sympathy in my boss. He immediately ordered me to stay home a couple days to rest. However, he also asked me numerous carefully-worded questions, and threw in just enough knee-injury lingo to worry me. But the doctor explained it was just a bum kneecap that refused to stay in place, and not an impending arthroscopic knee surgery. (That proclamation was not as re-assuring as I'd hoped--instead, it makes me gag a little bit whenever I walk now, imagining my knee cap floating out of place.)
And after two long weekends at home, being completely still (something I am not good at), I am tired of it all. I'm ready to climb the walls, if only my knee would let me.
Instead, I've been exercising at home, doing all that I can for a tired, single mom who is NOT a morning person (and as such, is completely unmotivated to do anything immediately upon waking--including waking up.)
But motivation is not my only foe. Also working against me is my kid, who a) refuses to go to bed early enough (i.e., before 9:30 p.m.) for me to walk on my treadmill in the garage, and b) is terrified of being alone in the house, even though I have patiently explained 5,893 times that I am just in the garage, a mere 10 feet away from him. (Strangely, this fear is not reciprocal--he has no problem practicing his drums in the garage while I am in the house.)
He remains unconvinced, however, which means I have to get off the treadmill at least 5 times to explain there are no monsters under his bed, or ghosts in the house. The whole thing is just completely...counterproductive.
Anyway...I did finally find a solution--a small pedaling machine that simulates a stationary bike. I can use it indoors and it doesn't take up all the space in my living room. As an added bonus, I can use it while watching TV, and then hide it behind my couch. Folks, we had a winner!
So that's what I've been doing, riding my little fake bike every night, and feeling pretty good about myself. What did not feel good, and in fact, was feeling worse with alarming regularity, was my knee.
And being the hardcore workout nut that I am now, I did what any other athlete in training would do--I ignored the pain. I actually told myself, "No pain, no gain," and then I distracted myself by watching a TV show about hand-fishing for catfish.
Well, my knee didn't like that. It gradually got worse until last week, I couldn't even walk on it. I ditched the tough-guy attitude and purchased a pair of crutches. So much for silently sucking it up.
I thought the crutches might at least garner a little sympathy for my busted knee, but no go. Mark immediately swiped them, and whipped around the house, showing me how much better he was at using crotches. (Not a typo. That's middle school humor at its finest.) The only thing more depressing than having to use crotches--err, crutches--is not being able to because your son is outside hitting tennis balls with them. Or sideswiping you with them in the hallway after yelling, "LOOK OUT!"
Well, maybe the doctor would be sympathetic. Or...maybe not.
He rotated my knee like an old-fashioned radio dial for exactly two seconds before informing me I have runner's knee.
"Except..." he said, giving me a once-over, and realizing I wasn't exactly the runner type. "Well, we won't call it runner's knee in your case."
And that's the first time someone has literally added insult to my injury.
I finally found some sympathy in my boss. He immediately ordered me to stay home a couple days to rest. However, he also asked me numerous carefully-worded questions, and threw in just enough knee-injury lingo to worry me. But the doctor explained it was just a bum kneecap that refused to stay in place, and not an impending arthroscopic knee surgery. (That proclamation was not as re-assuring as I'd hoped--instead, it makes me gag a little bit whenever I walk now, imagining my knee cap floating out of place.)
And after two long weekends at home, being completely still (something I am not good at), I am tired of it all. I'm ready to climb the walls, if only my knee would let me.
"This stinks," I lamented to my boss. "You try to get healthy, and instead, you get injured. What's the point of working out if it has the opposite effect?"
"I know," he said. "When you really think about it, nobody ever hurts themselves just sitting on the couch just watching TV."
And sadly, those are the words that rang truest to me. Because, honestly, before I started riding my little bike, all I did was sit on my couch, watching TV. Then I got motivated, got injured, and where did I end up? Yup, back on the couch, watching TV. Except now, I have a busted knee.
"I know," he said. "When you really think about it, nobody ever hurts themselves just sitting on the couch just watching TV."
And sadly, those are the words that rang truest to me. Because, honestly, before I started riding my little bike, all I did was sit on my couch, watching TV. Then I got motivated, got injured, and where did I end up? Yup, back on the couch, watching TV. Except now, I have a busted knee.
Maybe motivation isn't my biggest problem after all. Maybe logic is.
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