My Left Foot . . .

Last week one of my Facebook friends brazenly posted that she had gotten on her elliptical after a hiatus and glowed with exhilaration after her workout.  She ended the status update with, “Hello, old friend.”  I felt happy for her.  That is, until I started to suffer from the backlash her simple comment started.

Apparently, her elliptical called my elliptical to gloat.  My elliptical has stood, userless for going on ten weeks. . .maybe twelve.  I mean, I enjoy the elliptical as an option.  It allows me to run without any direct impact on my knees and avoid the inevitable shift from health-minded jogger to breathless loper which is a visual no one needs to see.  But, when it comes to summer, give me a good outdoor walk any day over a workout in the mancave.  Thus, the elliptical hasn’t seen much action and now, jealousy was rearing it’s ugly head.  It started off using a soft tact, “Have you see your Facebook friend?  She looks SO healthy!” it said.  I smiled, after all, I am recovering from ankle surgery and a broken bone.  I’m not ALLOWED to have a relationship with exercise. That machine knows how to push my buttons though.  Gradually, I shed the cast, the crutches, and finally the boot and the elliptical stepped up it’s taunt.  “Are your jeans a little tight there?” it asked.  Yes, I thought.  “How is the walking coming?”  it asked.  It’s getting too cold to walk, I think, and well, my Achilles needs to be stretched.  “I can do that for you,” it purred, “Just take it slow.”  I started thinking about the benefits and out of the blue, my left foot gets totally ticked off and jumps in-

“Where the hell have YOU been?” it asked right foot.

“Um. . .I’ve been a little wrapped up.”

“Well while you’ve been “wrapped up,’ I’ve been doing double duty and I’m a little sick of it.  Do you know how much weight I’ve had to bear?  Seriously, just look up!”

“Yeah, but you’ve been able to wear a cute shoe while I have been bound in the ugly black boot.”

“I haven’t even had a pedicure because of you,” my left foot hissed, “and I broke my pinky toe doing all the work and couldn’t even whine because YOU weren’t around the pick up the slack.”

“So, what are you saying?” Right foot inquired.

“I’m saying, get your heel on that elliptical machine and start moving because if I have to haul her butt around one more time, I will make sure you NEVER WALK AGAIN!”

So, I got on the elliptical and started to move for the first time in several weeks.  It felt great . . .for about fifteen minutes then, my left foot took off out the door.

“Hey!,” right foot yelled, “where are you going?”

“I’m going for a massage.  You just keep going, I’ll be back in about 6 weeks!”  

My elliptical retreated to the corner to pout.  I’m sure, though, it won’t be long before it starts mocking me. And I thought the surgery was painful.

But Weight. . . Is There More?

Most of you are well aware that I have spent he past 6 weeks somewhat  incapacitated.  I had surgery to remove a bone spur that had grown between two bones of my ankle joint rendering my foot unable to bend in a natural way and, ultimately left me stuck in a prone position for 3 weeks with another 3 in a Herman Munster boot.  I've called this time my unfortunate incarceration.  

Having been here before, but in a much worse capacity a few years ago. With the whole Achilles reattachment that resulted in 6 weeks prone, I vowed that this time I would be much more vigilant about trying to keep active somehow so as to avoid the whole  issue of  "spread".  Aspirations are a great thing. . .reality is the great equalizer.

I don't step on scales.  Those numbers are useless to me.  I weigh 120 pounds.  I know this because my driver's license says so.  I am proud that I have been able to maintain that weight all these years.  But what happens when you go somewhere where they "need" you to step on a scale?  Like say, the doctor's office?

For years, I insisted on standing on the scale backwards and admonished the nurse to NOT say the number out loud.  Why do I need to hear that number when I have a document that says it anyway (and will for as long as a good friend of mine runs the DMV locally)?  But, I am proud to say that at 49,  I have seized ownership of my free will and simply tell the nurse who says blandly, "Step on the scale please,"  No.  

The way I see it, I know when things have changed enough that it needs to be recorded.  We all know it.  You know that day when suddenly your jeans require air drying instead of being put in the dryer - well that's not the signal.  The signal is the day you cannot pull them up beyond your muffin top (which we all know is a delicate term for Dunlop's Disease - as in my belly dun lopped over my belt.)  Conversely, when you have been working hard and been successful enough to actually have to go buy clothes because everything you have hangs on you?  That would be a signal too.  I'm not saying you have to face that number (because you already know it's 120) but you can turn your back to the scale and tell the nurse to keep her mouth shut.

Which brings me to the here and now.  I have been, essentially, a body at rest (which, according to one commercial, tends to stay at rest) and even though I was extremely conscientious of what I ate and DID NOT EAT, I am sure the inevitable has occurred.  How do I know?  Well, the good news is that I can still put on my jeans.  The bad news is I kinda feel like Jabba the Hutt.  I have a doctor's appointment today and my hope is that I can lose the Herman Munster boot (which I am sure must weigh 10 pounds on it's own) and then I can get moving again.  However I will not get on a scale. According to my criteria (the jeans that I can still get on), I still weigh 120 pounds and my driver's license proves it!  

Judi Coltman is author of Is It Just Me? or Is Everyone a Little Nuts! available through Amazon, Barnes & Nobel.com, and www.judicoltman