I have fully recovered from my initial slump regarding my prognosis last Sunday. The knowledge of knowing everything about my disabilities (or in my case, limitations) gives me some sort of a sense of freedom to do whatever I want. I guess this might be the intoxicated me talking. I am on a 2 course antibiotics and ibuprofen, and will be for the next 4 days or so. You know, initially I was gutted out, devastated, keeled over by the shock of the news. I know, drama, but it's about to be that time of the month for me, so I guess I was controlled by my hormones than my rationale then.
I decided to make the best of it. So what if my legs are not made for running - I never said I wanted to be a professional runner. If clunky old men and severely rusty grandmas could shuffle along forward until the cows come home, perhaps so can I. I LOVE running. And I have done it in many situations: I have ran while feeling mad, pissed off, or angry, I have ran the whole course crying my eyes out, I have done it in love with my boyfriend next to me, I ran with kids, with my cat, up the hills, along the beach, up in the woods, amongst cyclists, in the rain, in the sun, while fasting, on injured knees, with injured feet, you name it, I have done it. And I want to do more, these are not enough. And if I could only do it once a week, with a maximum distance of 5k, be it. Nobody's counting, nobody's taking up time counts.
And so is swimming. Oh my, where do I begin. I am in love with swimming. And swimming loves me. Our relationship was like peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Easy, smooth and we did not give a hoot what other people thought. But then somehow in the middle of it all, I changed and things fucked up. It wasn't good enough, I thought, and I changed the dynamics. And all I got out of it was an injured shoulder and possibly weeks of recovery. I'm sorry swimming. I shouldn't have expected more from you (and myself). We were happy being no one in the pool, mediocre lovers just frolicking in the water. I should have not worked myself into a tizzy and worry about the most incessant things, like high elbow recovery. Who gives a hoot when all you need is love? One day, I will come back to you, and we could start again. You will comfort me and soothe me after a good day of whatever else I would be doing. We will be having FUN. No more hatin' - only lovin'.
Aaaahh cycling. My Secret Lover Agent Man. I shall keep mum about this because things are going good, and if it ain't broken, don't even WRITE OR TALK ABOUT IT.
Yesterday I went for a 2 hours yoga session. I am going to rave about this like I do everything else that sweeps me off my judgmental feet. I thought Yoga was too slow, and for trendy socialites. And then I thought it was too advanced for normal non-bendy people like me. And then I figured it would be too expensive anyway and for snobs, and too easy for ol' athletic me. Then I tried out a class, and another, and I was hooked. Humbled, firstly. I have tasted my medicine and it is bitter, but sweet. I loved being proven wrong. Yoga kicks your ass and shapes it into something you could see wiggling in MTV Jams. Not only your ass, but your core and your arms and your neck muscles and your toes - basically everything you have on you. It also tests your ability to cope with pain and block it out with even breathing. I am not the only one. When carloads of FAM football players drop in the many classes, you know it yoga kicks ass. Sometimes we have more sport dudes than the usual females and grannies.
So here's to another one wonderful year of working out, eating right (one aspect that I need Ian's book to help me out) and making new friends while working out. Here is to races I would be doing, races I would be cheering and races I would be volunteering. Looking forward to spend more time with Mr. Karate, my lawfully wedded husband. And with you, you and you who are reading this. Thanks for the support and they will be reciprocated by a tenfold.