The place is different at night. No sun pouring in the wall-sized window. The vertical blinds are mostly drawn, though I can see the parking lot, and the feed to a side road, while I work the elliptical for 10 minutes. Warm up per-PT. I’m early, but Celia takes me right away, while she’s still working with another client, and gets me started. More time to run through the routine.
Pain? Five for the right; six for the left. Though curiously it’s my right knee that gives me grief during my against-the-wall-with-an-exercise-ball squats. During the exercise ball bridges-with-hamstring-curls (my most challenging choreography), my sore back acts up and my hams contract. Maybe I’m not ready for three sets of fifteen. At home, I’ll back it off to two sets, or three sets of 10, and build it up. We spend 10 minutes exclusively on stretches.
I like the leg press. I’ve built up quickly on that. Less pressure on the knees, Celia explains. Unlike the squats, and the clock, and the quad work (35 pounds—or was it 50?) on the pulley machine, I get to sit and not support my weight. That makes sense, but there is also something satisfying about pushing off, pushing away, with my legs. Maybe it’s because it reminds me of pushing off at the pool.
I didn’t get to swim last night. Much to do. I had hoped to post PT, but I get out too late. I’ll never make it over there. I decide to shop in the mall just over there.
I picked up TP on sale. (The reverse of PT, I laugh to myself). A cheap set of silverware (it seems I’m losing forks like left socks—left at work? I don’t know). A new strainer for the sink. Andapackageofgoldenoreos.
What was that? Cookies?
Ugh. Yes. I bought cookies. I bought cookies on sale. I bought cookies on sale and opened the package in the car. I bought cookies on sale and opened the package in the car and ate half of it on the way home. I ate the other half once I got there.
I’m on a sugar binge. Yesterday I had Danish pastry for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I must’ve eaten a dozen Cakettes at my niece’s birthday party. I had pie and ice cream the day before.
There’s nothing wrong with tastes and bites, but when it escalates to an entire pack of Golden Oreos, which are not Fig Newtons, which means I don’t even like them that must.
An old demon, a demon of my own making, has returned from hibernation. There have been knocks, which I have alternatively ignored and only briefly entertained, but this was a barge through the door. Or no—that’s not true. I flung the door open and let the monster in.
Am I looking to be ravaged? Am I looking to fail? The jeans felt smug today. I was winded doing 10 minutes in the bike. I had a thought to write a whole series of cookie poems. (interesting idea, but the field work is dangerous. No, no, no, no, no!)
My knees were crunchy today, I told Celia. She nodded her head and confessed she heard me gritting my teeth and I was counting. She mimicked me: “Ssssevvennn.”
I confessed myself: I’ve not been consistent (as in missed several days) with doing my PT at home. But instead of cataloging the reasons why I’ve been so badly behaved, I vowed to improve.
“A little something everyday. It will help. Your hips will thank you.” and I know they will.
I also know know my hips will be happier if not saddling them with discounted sandwich cookies. Hello wagon ! Yes, it seems I fell off. Give me a second to climb back on.
One day at a time. (And I should take my own advice: deep breath…)