Now that my brain is getting sorted and all my neurotransmitters are getting the attention they need, I can direct my focus the parts of my body dangling helplessly below my head.
My body and I have a storied past. I spent all those years ignoring it when I thought it didn’t matter, then too many hating it when it separated me from the world, then those wonderful years loving it when it grew babies and got strong. And now we are in a strange place.
I’m not excited about rehab.
I’m not excited about gentle, restorative, “never despair, back care,” old lady exercise.
There. I said it.
I am in complete denial about the fact that I cannot even safely do yoga. I cannot even safely sit on the toilet first thing in the morning without giving serious thought to my posture and alignment.
I keep thinking it is optional. Like it’s etiquette training, walking around with a book balanced on my head. As if I don’t have to be this ladylike. But wait, yes I do, lest I have metal inserted into my spine.
I know I can change my attitude toward this stupid exercise. If it revolved around hill sprints and a squat rack, I would be digging through my notebook stash to create the perfect training log right this red hot second. I would build a perfect training plan, carve out the best part of the day to to implement it, then the write up the best nutrition plan to support it. But because these are slow, painful movements that don’t make me want to blast Eye of the Tiger or involve any type of sweat band, I am not excited.
Deep breath. Imagine my best friend’s eye roll.
I need to do the work.
I need to call it work.
I need to call it training.
I need to put on the spandex and make a training log.
I need to blast Eye of the Tiger and make that shit real because it is just as hard, if not harder, than stepping back into the squat rack.
And call me crazy (which you can because, as we have firmly established, I am), but I believe that I will be back in the rack some day. If I go slow and steady, if I build a steel cage of a core, wear protective gear, and have rock solid form, I can lift again. I will never hit the same numbers, and I will never try, but I can get sweaty in my garage doing old lady exercise. Old ladies can do work.