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You may have noticed I haven't done my best writing this week. I've tried to pass it off with all the contest hubub. I'm just so busy reading, and smiling at, all the random facts you guys submitted, blah, blah, blah. The truth is, my sorry ass is hurting something fierce. That's right, I can barely sit down. Or get up. Or walk, or for that matter … move. It isn't very conducive to creative writing.
About a week ago, I shared with you that The Torturer had declared me "unfit". I was outraged. I walk 4 miles on most days, I swim daily … I'm in decent shape for someone in their forties … especially considering the ordeal I've gone through over the last two years. I'm not a hard body. Yes, I could stand to lose a
zillion few pounds, but basically I'm fit. At least, I thought so. I've got muscles under my fat dammit, and how dare anyone tell me otherwise?
So now, it's over a week later. I've experienced several sessions of The Torturer's personal training, and what can I possibly say?
Except, omigod am I hurting! I do have muscles. I know this, unequivocally, because every single one of them is screaming in painful outrage at what The Torturer has done to me. My muscles feel like they've been ripped to shreds and will never function properly again.
I heard giggling last night, and then full-out laughter as PR watched me try to (slowly/painfully) get up the stairs to my bedroom.
"What are you laughing at?" I asked.
"Hahahahah, you look so, hahahaha, funny, hahahaha, trying to climb the stairs, hahahha!!"
Ahem … my
torturous attempts at movement are not really that funny, don't you agree?
I walked into the bathroom yesterday afternoon and I informed the kids, "I have to pee. If I manage to get down into a sitting position on the toilet, it's unlikely I'll be able to get back up. I may have to call you for help."
So maybe I'm not fit after all?
The Torturer offers "personal training" at his physical therapy facility. People sign up for individual sessions or small group classes, but I have been too immersed in my car accident recovery to participate. Now he's insisting on a program modified for me based on my injuries. Basically, it consists of all lower body exercises since I am unable to use a lot of my upper body still. I do all of my regular arm rehab, and then, in the name of fitness, they proceed to make the rest of my body hurt.
Because, really, I haven't had enough pain in my life these last two years.
I am absolutely determined not to admit one ounce of defeat to The Torturer. I told him I'm fit, and dammit, I plan to stick to that story no matter what. I can be the very definition of stubborn.
Day One of my lower body workout was a piece of cake. When I arrived for Day Two, he asked me if it had made me sore.
"Absolutely not, this is easy. I told you I have muscles!" I declared triumphantly.
I thought he'd say, "I was obviously wrong, you are fit, I apologize." I was going to tape record his apology to save for all posterity.
Instead he smiled and adjusted the machine I use. He increased it by FOUR levels of difficulty.
On Day Three, I conceded, "My butt's just a little bit sore."
What I didn't say is, "I have barely been able to walk, but dammit I will never, ever, admit that to you!"
He gave me a thumbs up sign and said, "That's what we want, a sore butt." Then he walked over to one of his trainers and said, "Kill her on squats today."
Yes he did!!
I acted nonchalant. I can pull off nonchalant with sweat dripping down between my breasts soaking my shirt, and my face glowing fifty shades of red.
Kill me with squats? No problem! Nevermind, I can't even friggin' walk! A few more squats? No big deal (as I exited to the bathroom to sob for a few minutes before returning).
I did those squats, although I don't know how. (Legs quivering, lack of oxygen to my brain, urge to simultaneously vomit and pass out, etc., etc.) My ass is still on fire and I don't think the pain's going away anytime soon. I have to go back for more torture tomorrow.
I refuse to admit he's killing me. I will not, for even one minute, concede he might have been right. Me? Unfit? No way!
I know he won't let up on me until he hears me admit what terrible shape I'm in. By the way, that's not going to happen, ever.
That pain in my ass? The one that's not going away anytime soon?