Up At My House

We're up at three AM. And this post, O Avid Fan, is brought you by ibuprofen, or the wearing-out thereof, and the weather.

You see, I have just had further proof that whatever intelligence may be at work in the universe, exercise is not part of its plan for me.

Last week I got back on the track with the Sun Run training program, acquired through Raincoaster. I ran one minute, then walked four in alternation until I had done each eight times (Monday) or nine (Tuesday).

Since I have no reliable chronometer--and can't seem to remember timings or do simple maths while wheezing, I basically run half-a-track (200 m, speedy I ain't) and walk a complete one. In a typical workout I go about three miles. I stick to the track because I'm still pretty porky around the belly regions and I am at the age when the future of one's knees has hove into view over the horizon, and I want to keep mine.

And things have been fine. I took a puff of powerful corticosteroids before headng out, so to circumvent the multiplying villanies of nature in my lungs, and felt amazingly good afterward.

Yesterday morning I was in the shower. The steaming water caressed my nude body. My hand traced lesiurely down my stomach, leaving bubbles in its wake. In the spririt of Bill O'Reilly I seized hold my loofah and ...

Hang on, hang on ... sorry ... that's for the other blog ... Where were we? Ah yes.

I raised my right foot, the better for to reach it: I keep it all the way at the end of my right leg and while my legs are not short, my torso is unreasonably long, so it's a fairly long way from my soap-bearing hands. And there was a wee twinge. I swore.

Mme Metro inquired solicitously what I was whining about. Hesitantly putting said foot back on the floor of the tub, I regarded it and its mate with some suspicion. They're plotting against me, I am certain. I swear sometimes they trade toes when they think I'm not paying attention.

But I felt that my tarsal toilette had been sufficiently made that I might reasonably end the procedings, so I turned to turn off the taps.

Which was when my spine, which had been lurking behind me, undetected, betrayed me.

The sensation was not unlike a powerful surge of electricity through my lower back and what are delicately referred to as the "hips". Hips, my ass ... more precisely.

I found myself leaning against the shower wall, getting a faceful of pressurized water and unable to gulp in the huge painful gasps I needed. I could not straighten up, and for a few seconds felt in very real danger of drowning.

Mme Metro and I have a pre-arranged secret signal to indicate trouble in the household. It is used only under the gravest circumstances, such as when the cat's pissed on the floor again, or we're out of milk, or one of us hasn't done the dishes (Since I am, by royal decree, only permitted to do the dishes on alternate leap years, you can guess who I'm referring to). The person in difficulty bellows:

"Aaaah ₤µ©λ!"

I duly did so, which brought Mme:
"Why the hell are you making that dreadful racket?" she inquired solicitously.

I explained, and Mme rose to the challenge, as I knew she would. Turning off the water, she bore me in her strong arms like a baby to the chiropractor ... or maybe I just imagined that bit.

"You're hurt," sums up in essence the words of the bone-cracker upon examining my spine.

Fortunately most of my essential work had been done this week, and I need only have some stuff finished by Monday night to address the balance. I spent the day, essentially, reading.

However, as Mme was at work and my (newish) glasses were way over in the bedroom, I was forced to lie on the sofa and snooze.

Which is what I would much rather do than exercise anyway.

So can't we make a deal here, Lord? I'll lie on the couch and snooze, and you just melt away the fat, deal?

But answer cometh there none.

Anyway, this is the sort of thing I think of when the drugs wear off, the room is too hot and muggy, and I'm afraid to try to roll over.