So I wrote last week about how I skipped all of my Miami runs for a mysterious groin/hip injury. I also wrote yesterday about how I tried to pace the hubs at the Mercedes Marathon, failed halfway through, and was left walking like a rocking horse—as Zack affectionately calls my limp. Tired of me bitching yet?
All jokes aside, my hip hurt like a motherfucker post-race on Sunday. And I can tolerate pain. It was bad enough for me to drag myself to the doctor first thing Monday morning, where I had x rays taken, my range of motion checked, and my fashionista card revoked. The x rays didn’t show anything, so the doc said it can either be a simple strain or something more serious that an MRI would reveal. I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl—I’ll wait and stretch and massage (scandalous!) and rest and eat my meds like candy in hopes that I can recover in time to run part or all of Mississippi 50 next weekend.
In the meantime, I’ve been learning that hips are an important part of your body. I’ve taken mine for granted for the past 26 years, even chastising them at times for being “round,” “muffin top-y,” or “baby-bearing beauties.” Well, I stand corrected. Hips, I sincerely apologize. I love you and I need you. For what exactly, you ask? Running and walking, of course, but also for some other things I never thought about:
Flushing a public toilet—Until you’ve been trapped in a bathroom stall wearing heels and a dress, unable to lift your leg high enough to flush, you haven’t fully appreciated your hip’s range of motion.
Putting on/taking off pants—Something so simple suddenly becomes either an awkward, teeth-clenching hop or a maneuver on your bed resembling an overturned, dying cockroach.
Climbing into a car—No more seamless motions here—it now goes butt, good leg, bad leg. And climbing up into the hubs’ Xterra is a two-person job.
Sleeping on your side—Think you can escape discomfort in your dreams? Not if you insist on sleeping in the fetal position, like I do.
Dancing—One-legged gimp dancing isn’t sexy—I tried it at the Mercedes Marathon.
Do I sound like a cranky old woman yet?