Oh, HELLO, old friend.


Awwwww, shee-it, Doctor Pixie-Cut is feelin' granny's sweet assy goodness.  Keep it up, homegirl, dontcha quit.

Awwwww, shee-it, Doctor Pixie-Cut is feeling all up on Granny's sweet assy goodness. Keep it up, homegirl Pixie. Ooh, dontcha quit.

Physical therapy is sort of awesome, aside from the fact that going to it means that you’re…you know…still a gimp.  It’s one hour, twice a week, where one person is focusing all their attention on making you feel better, and occasionally massaging the shit out of your hip joints.  Which — once you get over her having her hands all up on your pelvis — is really kind of pleasant.  And all of my appointments are at 8, before work, which means that I get my daily dose of selfish before wandering off and selflessly performing research for the betterment of America.

Anyway.

This week in self-knowledge: as Madam Physical Therapist has found, I have one leg longer than the other.  No joke.  Who knew?  So this is apparently what I am up against — asymmetry and a lack of an ass.  Huh.

The recovery continues to go well.  We’ve been on a couple of (pain-free!) 10-plus milers, though I haven’t told the PT.

…who may or may not have told me that she doesn’t want me running yet.

…but still.  A small part of me has had this bad-ass thought — that maybe I can eke out 13 to 15 this weekend someday, and then next weekend try a 18-20-miler, and then when Boston rolls around I’ll be in shape, and that weekend I can just think, “How am I feeling?  Can I do this?” and if the answer is “Yes,” I will nonchalantly hop on a train up to Boston, call a friend so I can crash for the weekend and nonchalantly crank out 26.2 leisurely miles of ROCK and kickass and-

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” says Madam Physical Therapist.

Pipe down, lady.  I didn’t even tell you about this plan.

“You’re a dumbass.”

“And you can’t say no to my totally adorbz Jordanian accent.”

True enough.

She actually has me doing this thing now where she puts electrodes on my left quad and cranks up the voltage on this little box until my muscle jumps and tenses involuntarily.  It’s sort of a cool feeling, and I sit there on this table, getting my twitch on for ten minutes at a time.

So.  Electroshock therapy.  We all knew I had it coming.

Anyway, in other good news, I also went on a 10-to-11-miler last weekend in the cold, cold rain.  All was well until somewhere in the middle of the Mall, when a cold ball of awfulness settled in my gut.  I looked down and politely addressed my colon.

Oh, hi there.  Welcome back.

Have I told you all about the poop yet?  I feel as if I have.  If not, suffice it to say that if you’re not a runner, you think I’m just being gratuitiously gross, but trust me.  I’m not.  Soccer players get ACL tears, football players get permanent brain damage, rugby players get thumbs to the eye, and runners get the trots.

I just speak the truth.

So it’s 45 degrees and the rain is horizontal and awful, and I’m circling a 5-block area around the Eastern Market building — the only place I know of with public commodes that is also chaotic enough that no one will judge me as I go in and have a body-chilling, clutching-knees-to-face, questioning-if-there-is-goodness-left-in-the-universe experience.

Several times.

Ohhh, I remember this.  <shiver, sob>

And it was AWESOME.

Guys, I’m bizzack.  Well, mostly.

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