Wednesday, March 03, 2004
I hate to exercise. Oops, hate is not a nice word. I strongly dislike exercising. I am opposed to exercising in most all of it's forms: running, aerobics, spinning, real bike riding, stair climbers (ouch), all of it.
I used to be a swimmer. I mean, I was really a swimmer. I trained morning and night (and still wasn't all that good, but oh, how I loved it) until I tore my shoulder to shreds. Actually, then I swam some more until the doctor pondered just how my arm was staying attached to my body. Three surgeries later and no more swimming. Randy Horner, who by some miracle is still allowed to coach the sport, told me that swimming wasn't an easy sport and that it was supposed to hurt. I was 16. He was supposed to be looking out for my best interest.
Every time I smell chlorine I want to cry. I just want to get back in the water again!! It is so peaceful. Follow the black line, turn at the T, follow the black line, turn at the T. It was so easy, so routine. I could swim the miles away. Now, when I try to get in the pool, I am frustrated and angry when my arm won't quite go over my head for a pretty freestyle. Still I persevere, thinking I just need to "find it" again. But before that can happen, the BURNING starts. Still, I keep swimming, thinking, "This, too, will pass." It doesn't. After a couple of hundred yards, by the time I get to the T, turning isn't an option. At this point, I pull myself out of the water with one arm, not in a very ladylike fashion. I sit rocking, feet in the gutter, knees to my chest, holding my left shoulder with my right hand, and trying to will the pain away. When it starts to fade to a dull throb, one of two things happens. One, stupid girl that I am, I hop back in the water and do it all again. Two, I try to slip into the locker room unnoticed, embarrassed at leaving after a mere few hundred yards of swimming. I used to be a swimmer. Now I'm a sloth.
I used to be a swimmer. I mean, I was really a swimmer. I trained morning and night (and still wasn't all that good, but oh, how I loved it) until I tore my shoulder to shreds. Actually, then I swam some more until the doctor pondered just how my arm was staying attached to my body. Three surgeries later and no more swimming. Randy Horner, who by some miracle is still allowed to coach the sport, told me that swimming wasn't an easy sport and that it was supposed to hurt. I was 16. He was supposed to be looking out for my best interest.
Every time I smell chlorine I want to cry. I just want to get back in the water again!! It is so peaceful. Follow the black line, turn at the T, follow the black line, turn at the T. It was so easy, so routine. I could swim the miles away. Now, when I try to get in the pool, I am frustrated and angry when my arm won't quite go over my head for a pretty freestyle. Still I persevere, thinking I just need to "find it" again. But before that can happen, the BURNING starts. Still, I keep swimming, thinking, "This, too, will pass." It doesn't. After a couple of hundred yards, by the time I get to the T, turning isn't an option. At this point, I pull myself out of the water with one arm, not in a very ladylike fashion. I sit rocking, feet in the gutter, knees to my chest, holding my left shoulder with my right hand, and trying to will the pain away. When it starts to fade to a dull throb, one of two things happens. One, stupid girl that I am, I hop back in the water and do it all again. Two, I try to slip into the locker room unnoticed, embarrassed at leaving after a mere few hundred yards of swimming. I used to be a swimmer. Now I'm a sloth.
