Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Roasted Scrotum


"Roasted Scrotum? I have a roasted scrotum" I asked as I lifted my head up from the soft, warm table to read what was written about me on the grease board. "No, it says Rotated Sacrum" corrected Thomas, my Body Mechanic.

Competing in the Super Jane Triathlon with the T.W.A.T.s in 2008 was the first publicly competitive activity I ever participated in, except for walking through nightclubs in my 20s. I was really good at that and let me tell you, it wasn't easy in those shoes.

After the triathlon, all us T.W.A.T.s were on fire and ready to sign-up for the next one. But right after the triathlon my back seized up on me. I couldn't run or sit without severe pain. I hate being broken. I feel like I have all this strength and energy in my brain, but my body just slows me down like a shopping cart with a rusted wheel.

After my last triathlon, I had to sit on the floor to put on my pants for over a year because I couldn't lift my right leg. My back was in distress and it simply would not fire to lift my leg. I had to hoist it around with my hands like a dead dog strapped to my waist. Thankfully, I could at least tell people it was a triathlon injury instead of something lame like a pedicure mishap or a Wii accident.

I gave up real workouts for a while, telling myself "Well, that's it for me. No more triathlons, or running, or weight lifting. I'll just find exercises that are more conducive to my advanced age of mid-forties."

I started researching dance classes, dog walking, swimming. Meanwhile I gained 15 pounds and started smuggling my food babies in maternity pants.

I tried to fix my back problem:

1. Ibuprofen .... until my stomach hurt

2. Chiropractic .... felt great for the time being, but had to keep coming back week after week, month after month, check after check.

3. Physical Therapy .... made my back worse because stretching is the last thing I should have been doing!

4. Denial .... I just pretended that it wasn't happening and kept working out anyway. Same results as (3).

Finally I took my back to the shop: My Body Mechanic. I suppose if I had to describe Thomas' services to a stranger, I'd say something like "It's like a sports massage with all your clothes on, but instead of feeling good on the table and leaving with your original injuries, you'll leave without the problem you came in with. He's amazing." But that's the dumbest explanation ever. He has all sorts of credentials and you can read them for yourself.

So amazing is Thomas, that I've decided to compete in another Triathlon in October. I have confidence that:

A) I will prevent a debilitating injury, months and months of treatments, and medical bills.

B) I will beat my prior times, even though I'm now 45.

C) I will get more women involved in Triathlons.

My friend Kelly and I decided to do the Tri-Girl-Tri in October. I'm just excited about having new blog material. There's the locker room etiquette, outdoor drills, and of course we still need to come up with a new team name. Kelly and I have some ideas: The Moaning V's, Beadazzled Bitches, and more. We can't be the T.I.T.s because Team In Training already swiped that one. Any ideas?

Oh, and my rotated sacrum (aka roasted scrotum)? He fixed it. In one visit. Back pain is gone. I'm afraid my knees are jacked too. So he gave me some things to do about that with a giant roller. And I run like a dorky girl, but that's another post.

Monday, April 12, 2010

Speaking of Paris Hilton and Zombies

We walked into the lobby of the Hilton Garden Hotel in Roseville, California. There was a pleasant color scheme of vanilla and sage. I said to my daughter, Giselle, "Do you know who owns this hotel?" She looked up at me with her round blue eyes and her loopy reddish curls and waited for another boring grown-up answer that might include historical legend or a lesson in gumption and know-how. "Paris Hilton's parents." I told her. She looked shocked, but I don't know why because she doesn't even know anything about Paris Hilton except that her parents own a hotel. It must be amazing for her to think of parents owning a hotel, since all we own is one house and some cars.

When I was about her age (nine) I found out how much my mom made. In 1973, she made $1,400 per month as a social worker. I was thrilled to find out we were rich. My heart was skipping around with me as I dreamt of the endless possibilities that $1,400 would bring to us each month. But wait, if we were rich, shouldn't we be living a little better? Like more toys and trips to Disneyland every weekend? My excitement quickly turned to great disappointment in my mother. She was a squanderer. Here she was making all that money and we didn't even own a candy store. Surely that's what we should have done with the money. Buy a candy store. Instead she was wasting all my money on a private school for me, trips to Europe, and bills. What an idiot.

We do a lot of traveling with our kids but it's usually sports related. This weekend it was a swim meet for Giselle. We arrived Saturday night and went to dinner with the other families, returning to our rooms about 9:00. Giselle laid down in her fluffy comfy bed with her stuffed rabbit, Sally, and fell asleep pretty quickly. I read my book for about an hour and then the noise started. It's okay, I accept it and deserve it. It is my karma. I prepare as much as possible by bringing the sound machine, Benedryl, and a special pillow. I don't drink any caffeine that day, and I sleep alone. I always ask the desk clerk to give us a quiet room on the top floor. But here's what happens ... every time:

There is a group of zombies who travel around the country. They always check into their rooms late because zombies are mostly active in the evenings. I can hear them getting out of the elevators and dragging themselves down the hallway, step - drag, step - drag, step drag and banging their luggage full of extremities and sweetbreads against the walls as they search for their room. Their rooms are always next to mine.

I'll hear a loud moan as their room door slams shut and they start unpacking all of their luggage right away. I can here the drawers open and then SLAM shut. Then they go into the bathroom to unpack their beauty products and Sonicare but most of it drops onto the tile floor. This takes them about an hour because zombies don't have the dexterity of the living. Sometimes they're missing digits so that makes it even harder to get a grasp onto the hardware.

Zombies love television shows. In fact, television is attributed with the creation of many zombies. But since they're essentially dead, their hearing is shit, so they have to have the volume up abnormally high. It's not really their fault, they need to stay somewhere while they're traveling across the country, right? What I really hate about zombies is that they're such fakers. That moaning goes on for hours and hours and I can't help but mumble to myself "Just fake your climax and get it over with, already!"

I have it coming. It's my karma.

Back in my 20's, we would rent hotel rooms in swanky hotels and drink and party all night long. Screaming, throwing things, flooding toilets, loud music, naught movies, and maniacal laughing. I had no concept of anyone existing outside of myself. I don't remember the front desk ever calling us up. Nobody ever knocked on the walls and told us to shut up. It all just added up in a giant karma account, just waiting for me to grow up and have children.

On Sunday, after a solid three hours of sleep, I stood in the freezing cold rain for 8 hours and cheered on my daughter's team while I drank coffee from the concession stand and wiped my nose on my scarf. Today I have a fever and a stuffy nose. My extremities are still cold and stiff. I may be turning into a zombie. I wonder what's on tv?

Photo credit Zombieme, DestinationCreation.com and check out Zombie Squad