Laid Up

I have hurt myself.

My back. Oh, my aching back.

It started a couple of weeks ago when I mentioned to my husband that my interval run at the gym that night had been especially hard. My legs repeatedly cramped. I figured that my shoes were to blame and I needed to get into the running store to get fitted for another pair.

I had a pain in my right hamstring that radiated up into the glutes. I was proud of that pain because it meant that I had worked out hard enough to make my ass hurt. This is good, especially considering the fact that I am in possession of my mother's ass, which was my grandmother's and is defined only by it's incessant pilgrimage to my ankles. The pain meant that I could foolishly hope that my dedication would eventually change the shape and girth of that pancake sitting on top of my legs. I welcomed the hurt.

But then, it didn't go away. Instead, with each successive workout, it got worse spreading up into my lower back.

Last night, my routine called for squats and split squats, which I completed with special attention to form. By the time I got to my last set though, that wee throb in my lower back had turned into a scream. Uh oh.

I got onto the treadmill to finish up with a twenty minute interval training and at the four minute mark, I had to get off and switch to the elliptical, which was no picnic, but doable.

I've been chewing ibuprofen since then.

This morning, the simplest thing like GETTING OUT OF BED hurt more than I care to admit.

This aging thing sucks donkey balls.