19 February 2011

update (really, but not about me, so not really)

The gym guy called back, and I missed his call and he left a very informative voicemail so I do not have to call him back (score!). He said they will be more than happy to a) freeze my membership and also b) refund me the weeks I've missed so far. But I will need a doctor's note.

CUE SAD MUSIC. Like maybe some emotional Backstreet Boys, or maybe some Justin Bieber, since that's what the kids seem to be into these days, idk.

I would like to do a lyrical pun here, but I don't listen to Justin Bieber.

As I mentioned somewhere before, I do not have insurance currently. This is because I quit my full-time job in the industry I have wanted to work in since I was 12 in order to move to California with my boyfriend. Then my boyfriend and I got to California and broke up, which is the story of why I am currently in the Great White North. (Well not really, it is of course a much longer story, one that I will be happy to tell any of you in person if you want to come over and bring Kleenex and vodka and Cheez-Its, not necessarily in that order.) So upon hearing that the gym would require a doctor's note I did some asking around to see if I know any doctors who would be willing to give me a note.

I asked my mom, who lives next door to a doctor, and works for a doctor, and has a brother who is a doctor, and whose best friend has a son who is a doctor. She said no.
I asked my dad, who is the CEO of a healthcare non-profit and knows thousands of doctors*. He said no.
So then I resigned myself to my sad fate and found a free clinic in town. I will be schlepping there on Monday. It is a Catholic clinic, which is fine because I do not need birth control, but I am a little worried that it may burst into flames when I walk through the door. Which would be sad on many levels, including the fact that I would then need to have burns treated on top of my butt problems. It never ends.

*Back when I was having tumor issues, I emailed my X-rays to my parents so they could get an idea of what was going on. Unbeknownst to me, my father then sent the X-rays to literally DOZENS of random doctors I had never met, asking if they could take a look and offer advice. I started receiving emails from tons of men I had never met, all of whom had peered at my bones and were eager to share their thoughts. I called my dad and said, "Who are these men and why do they have opinions on my innards?" In retrospect, it was very adorable, but I find it highly suspect that now when I need a note about my butt, he can't be bothered to email one of them. However if the free clinic decides there's a tumor of sorts hiding in there, I am sure my dad will be all over it.

16 February 2011

update (not really)

This is what I am currently sitting on:

Why yes, yes that is a chair with a full-sized bed pillow on it. I should sit on this even when my ass is not injured, because my butt is bony enough that this chair causes me pain after five minutes anyway. But the fact that I went through the effort to grab a pillow from my bed to sit on while I blog should tell you that my tailbone still hurts.

The plus side: it is getting better! It hurts less and I can do various things that I could not before, like get into the car without wincing and carry a ladder without wanting to kill someone.

The down side: well. It still hurts.

I finally gave in and called my gym this morning to see if I could freeze my membership while my dignity heals itself. The membership guy was not in, so I left a message. He's there now and hasn't called me back, which is a fairly accurate metaphor for life at the moment. If you need me, I'll just be hanging out here on my butt pillow, waiting for the phone to ring and contemplating various life choices, like which microwaveable dish I would like to eat for breakfast.

09 February 2011

full-on frowny

Well. Nine days after literally busting my butt on the ice, I'm still walking painfully like a senior citizen, clearly have yet to run a single mile and have officially given up hope of running the Little Rock Half-Marathon. Which is in 25 days, not that it matters with regard to my sad life anymore.

UGH. I AM NOT HAPPY. Basically I am this:


+ this:


Only I'm less cute and more bitchy. Reasons I am not happy:
1. My stupid butt. I have a really bony butt, like embarrassingly bony, like I can't go to restaurants and sit on un-padded chairs because I will be in legit pain in about 20 minutes. I have the whitest white-girl booty you've ever seen. So of course it should have occurred to me that falling hard on said bony white-girl booty would probably result in a more-than-casual injury, because I have zero padding back there. Of course it did not occur to me, which just adds insult to the ongoing injury.
2. I can't go to the doctor to properly diagnose my butt injury because I don't have insurance, because I quit my job and moved to California to be with my now ex-boyfriend, where presumably there is no ice to slip on, OH MY GOD THIS BUTT THING IS JUST BRINGING UP RAGE ABOUT SO MANY OTHER THINGS. Through the magic of the Google, I have determined that my tailbone is in fact bruised and not broken, not that it matters because either way there's not much a doctor can do for it except offer ibuprofen and ice and pat me on the back. But still. It would be nice to know for sure.
3. I HATE QUITTING THINGS, and if I had NOT fallen on my ass and had been able to continue my last-minute training plan, I would have been able to run that half-marathon no problem. It probably wouldn't have been pretty but I believe I would have beat my tumor time, and I would have also gotten to spend the weekend with the giraffe, drinking wine and coffee and loving the balmy 40-degree temperatures in Little Rock. Now instead I am going to suffer alone, with my butt, in the Great White North. Probably with wine, as clearly alcohol is all I have left.
4. I hate the Great White North. Can I please move anywhere, except for back to Virginia? Can I please get a job so I can get out of here? It is so cold outside that every uncovered part of my body (aka my face, my hands) physically hurts after about 10 seconds of venturing outside.
5. (the kicker) When I am this crabtacular, running is basically the only thing that makes me feel better. Aaaaaaaand I can't.

Well, maybe that's not entirely true, because whining about things on the internet just now kind of made me feel better. KIND OF.

Anyway, probably I will keep blogging about ridiculous things that happen to me, but unfortunately my posts will probably not include any running for awhile, like until my butt TAILBONE heals. (I really have to start embracing the term "bruised tailbone" rather than "broken butt" because it is more socially acceptable, like I can't tell my boss I can't do things at work because my butt hurts, even though - surprise! - I already told her that like 17 times.)

As a sad final note, please observe the email I received from the Daily Mile this week:

Thanks, jerkfaces. Appreciate it.

01 February 2011

And then I fell down (it was only a matter of time)

Uhh so. After a really great week of training, I spent two days eating things like this:

That's Midwestern for "gourmet breakfast" in case you aren't fluent.

We like anything that involves cheese.

Cream cheese counts as a cheese.

Cheez-Its are low-brow cheese.

I don't usually stress about the occasional binge weekend because a) it's fun (look at all the cheese, who knew cheese even CAME in so many forms?!) and b) it doesn't matter if you go back to eating like a sane human shortly thereafter. Plus with all the running, I figured, who cares? Clearly this is the best part of running.

And then I slipped and fell on ice into my way into work yesterday, and now my butt hurts and I am walking like I am 80 and I don't know that is such a great idea for me to go running. Also did I mention it looks like this outside YET AGAIN:

Only less pretty and more annoying. And if I managed to injure myself walking at a slow pace into work, you can imagine what I would do to myself outside trying to contend with NATURE, or whatever. The end result of this is that I am crabby and I feel bloated from the trillion grams of carbohydrates I ingested over the past few days. The extra-sad part is that normally eating some Cheez-Its would make me feel better.

Through the magic of the Google, I have learned that if running doesn't hurt, it is probably okay to do it. So my tentative plan is to head to the gym tomorrow and see how it feels, though frankly if I get dressed and drive all the way there and go through my entire warm-up and then get on the treadmill to find that it hurts, I am probably going to be inclined to keep running just because, good lord, that is a lot of BOTHER. Maybe I will do some sweet warm-up jogs in the living room beforehand just to test things out. You know, give the cats something new to tell their therapist.

Unimpressed with me generally.

In closing I would like to say that if you are in the Great White North, walk very slowly when you are outside lest you fall and injure your tailbone. Said injury will lead to crabbiness and, at least in my case, concerned BlackBerry messages from my father inquiring about the state of my coccyx. Since then my power mantra has switched from "IT'S NOT A TOOMAH" to this:

Napoleon: What are you doing here, Uncle Rico?
Uncle Rico: Grandma took a little spill at the sand dunes today. Broke her coccyx.

F my life. My mom suggested icing it but I draw the line at icing my butt. I must retain what little dignity I have to begin with.