On being injured...

When I was on the high school swim team, I loved to practice. I hated to compete. At the end of each season, we'd have a big conference-wide swim meet-- the biggest meet of the entire season. My freshman year, I came down with bronchitis and got out of the meet. I wasn't thrilled to be sick, but it felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders. The next year, I was sick again. By my junior year, I found myself standing outside, shivering in a wet bathing suit, hoping that I'd get sick again. I didn't want to actually come out and say I didn't have the chops for the meet, but I didn't have the chops for the meet.

One summer, also in high school, I enrolled in a dance camp with the Connecticut Ballet Theatre. It was several hours a day, four or five days a week. For the first few weeks, it was really fun. Then it got kind of hard. Then my knee started to hurt, and I realized that with an injury sidelining me, I could watch all of the other girls busting their butts, without actually having to do it myself. I even had my mom take me to an orthopedist, who looked at my knee, proclaimed that nothing was really wrong with it (I was hoping to need surgery, which would ensure me a guilt-free break for at least a couple of months), and sent me on my way.

So I guess what I'm saying is that when the going got tough for me, I used to fake injuries or fake sickness. I knew I could probably push myself harder, but it was an easy way to take a break when I couldn't mentally deal. Right now, I'm in a pretty good place mentally, as far as exercise goes. In fact, with everything that has been going on with Isaac, I've really needed the exercise and both the stress-relief and the accolades I get from it to keep me going with a smile on my face.

But as I've mentioned a few times over the last few weeks, my knee has been bugging me. It felt great during the half-marathon last Saturday, and then started hurting on Saturday night, leaving behind a nagging pain. On Monday I tripped over a bicycle helmet in the garage (yes, I was carrying Isaac, and thank goodness he is fine) and twisted my ankle, smacking it into the concrete of the garage floor. It bled and swelled up like a balloon. But it's fine. Well, mostly fine. It's still too swollen to fit into a running shoe.

So I rested. Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. This morning, I went swimming. I hate being injured, really hate being injured twice over (three times if you count the sore hamstring), and especially hate the fact that the injury falls at a time that will likely make it impossible for me to do the full marathon at Country Music in April. But over the last few days, I've come to appreciate a few things. This time, I'm not faking it. I'd be out there if I could. I probably should have rested six weeks ago, but I couldn't bring myself to "wimp out" enough to do it. I've also mentally adjusted to the idea that I won't become a gordita overnight, even if I miss three days in a row of exercise. And in a couple of weeks, when I come back recovered from all of my injuries, I am going to be invincible.