In the spring, I made the unfortunate decision to join two volleyball teams that played on consecutive (Wednesday and Thursday) nights. I enjoy playing, and like (need) the exercise, but ideally the sessions of flinging myself across a gym and filling my socks with sweat would be spaced out a little more. Like once every equinox, maybe. I’m thirty-six, for crissakes. One of these days, I’ll break a hip out there or sprain a prostate or put out an eye with my walker or something.
Now it’s time for the fall season. And while I’m six months older, I’m apparently just exactly as stupid. Because I just played volleyball for the first time in months on Wednesday night. And for the second time in months last night.
“From the wrists down, I feel the burn like I’m training for Clubber Lang. The rest of me would probably lose a pillow fight with Mickey.”
I’d forgotten just how many muscles are used only on the volleyball court. At least in my life; maybe you have one of those jobs where you use muscles a lot, like moving pianos or erecting buildings or juggling chainsaws for spare change at the subway station. Hey, good for you.
(Me, I’m a programmer. I type on a keyboard for ten hours a day. From the wrists down, I feel the burn like I’m training for Clubber Lang. The rest of me would probably lose a pillow fight with Mickey.)
So, for two nights I dusted off those long-dormant muscles used to spike and block and high-five and pull my fat ass off the floor. And today, they’re fighting back. Most of the complaints seem to be coming from the back and arms, with a few angry customers scattered around the rib cage and stomach, too.
(Happily, the legs have abstained from this particular round of soreness. I guess all that walking once a day to and from the keyboard has really paid off. Super.)
Of course, the first week back is always the worst. Soon enough, I’ll be sore on Fridays, but not sore sore. Not so sore that I’ll still think about installing a motorized chair in the house to get up and down the stairs, or finding a way to get to the bathroom in the morning that involves remaining horizontal. Because this morning, if I knew where the hell to order a gurney from, it would’ve been a done deal. I’d have even paid extra for the bedpan attachment. Or an especially helpful nurse.
So now I’m trying to do the smart thing, and keep those volleyball muscles in shape through the week and year-round. At work, I’ll sprint to and from meetings. (But mostly from.) I’ll practice jumping to rinse off my knees in the shower, instead of adjusting the shower head. And at the toll booth, I’ll spike my change into the little basket.
Or at least near the basket. My spiking isn’t all that consistent, unfortunately. I may have to keep a few extra rolls of quarters in the glove box.
Hopefully, with a few little exercises and tricks, I can avoid these start-of-season unpleasantries and walk fully upright and without moaning again. Meanwhile, I’ll try to sit here perfectly motionless for the next three days until the achiness wears off. At least I can still work out my fingers and thumbs. Feel the burn, baby.Permalink | 1 Comment