I have encountered two more issues I may have with running a marathon.
Pain or injury?
How do you tell the difference between pain with a purpose or an actual injury?
Today my hip-flexors were so rigid I felt like every jerky stride was controlled by a sadistic puppeteer, and my knees were tighter than an actor’s purse strings.
Is this normal, or is this early warning signs that injury is ahead?
Is it like when I am working on a new show and my vocal chords tire while they adjust to the new material?
Or is it more like the damage done to my ears while listening to karaoke on a Friday night at the pub?
I don’t know, and since I’m disinclined to go to the doctor’s I suppose I’m unlikely to find out.
A problem normally associated with my husband, father and brothers, and typically solved by them liberally coating their nether regions in every household’s first-aid staple – Vaseline.
My chafing is PG rated, don’t worry. It is on the under side of my upper arm and the result of scraping it against the roof of the house.
Why you might ask? I shall tell. Yesterday Gregory and our friend Ron decided to play Frisbee. In the backyard. Right by the house. Naturally, within minutes the Frisbee had escaped their clutches and hid itself on the far edge of the roof. And so, on account of being the most flexible, (I have at least found one occasion where musical theatre is relevant in the real world) I was nominated to slither out the small, high, second-floor bathroom window and tiptoe across the roof to capture the runaway Frisbee. And while my vertical splits out the window weren’t too bad for an over thirty-year old, I couldn’t avoid sustaining an arm injury from the rough wall. Ordinarily grazing my arm isn’t something I tend to get too upset about, but in this situation a scratch can really screw with your system.
It was a beautiful run along Nelson Bay. Tranquil even…or it would have been if it weren’t for the fact that every wink from the sparkling ocean, every glance at the setting sun was ruined by my scratched arm rubbing against my tank top.
Which just goes to show that it really is the little things that get you down.