Annihilated Knees

"Okay. What about if I move your knee like this?" My doctor twisted my leg this way and that way.

Cra-a-a-a-ck-k-k! My knee made a sound like a small bundle of twigs being snapped in two. The doctor looked visibly horrified.

"Yep, that one hurt," I confirmed as I lay on the examination table.

I'd been doing relatively well, fitness-wise, up until this week: running, gym-ing, dance classes, and a morning exercise routine involving press ups, tricep dips, crunches and squats. Unfortunately I decided to take on the 30 day squat challenge: a challenge in which you do a certain amount of squats almost every day, building up the number of squats each time. Squats are really bad news for knees, but I mistakenly believed that since I'm in relatively good shape, it would be okay.

What I'd forgotten about is that time during a judo session years and years ago when my sparring partner botched a throw and resulted in my left knee being twisted and crushed.

It's easy to forget about a weakness or illness when you're feeling fine, and my knee hadn't given me much trouble in a few years, even through all the exercise I've been doing. However a couple of weeks ago, two thirds of the way through the 30 day squat challenge, my knees- both of them- started to creak. And a couple of days ago, the left kneecap decided it wanted a change of scenery, which resulted in my knee locking every time I bent it for any reason (especially sitting down), and then having to endure a horrible crunching,, grinding sensation to straighten my leg.

Suspecting chondromalacia (the wearing away of the cartilage under the kneecap) and perhaps a torn ligament or two by the nasty way my kneecap was moving, I took myself to the doctor's yesterday morning, who promptly told me to put my left knee in a support for all waking hours, and sent me straight to hospital to get X-rays done on both knees.

I won't get the results back for another week or so- in the meantime my knee's bound up so I feel like I'm walking like a robot (which I'm trying but failing not to find kind of cool), and I'm taking supplement tablets designed for healthy joints, just in case it helps. Whatever's going on with my knees I know it's not good, and I certainly won't be able to do certain types of exercise for at very least a few months. If I'm unlucky, years- if I'm very unlucky, ever again. I can still do low impact exercise with my brace, and be careful when dancing- but no more squats, no more bounding up and down the stairs like a goat, and- alas- no more distance running for a while.

I'm a really active person, so it kills me not to be able to tear around like I'm use to doing. However, if I don't slow down, I risk never recovering and a lifetime of crippling pain, and I'll completely incapacitate my future self (aka Old Lady Tash). So, Old Lady Tash, I'm doing this for you.

Wounded at the Gym

I flicked the fluff of baby hairs away from my face irritably as I ran on the treadmill- my baby hairs always spring out at the slightest bit of movement, no matter how neatly I tie my hair back. I accidentally scratched my right temple as I did so, which stung a little but not much- I was too busy focusing on trying to outdo my personal best to mind.

During my two hours at the gym this evening I noticed that quite a few people were glancing in my direction, and some were openly staring. I'm used to people occasionally taking a peek at the monitor of whichever machine I'm on to compare against how they themselves are doing, but the sheer amount of people passing and peering at me today was quite annoying. Still, I kept focused, not letting anyone distract me out of my 'zone'.

When I got home, I passed a mirror and discovered why I was the apparent centre of attention: an impressive flow of blood had made its way all the way down my face from my scratched temple, paired with a comically dramatic smear of blood across my forehead from a routine sweat-wipe.


Edit:

One of my friends Tisa pointed out that it was typical British behaviour how no-one actually asked if I was okay: I didn't even think of that! Although I'm not surprised- I did fall down the stairs of a double-decker bus once when the driver braked (broke?) too violently, and no-one checked if I was okay. Huh.

In Which I Conduct a Social Experiment: Part 3- Conclusion

Bloody hell you know how I was bragging about running two miles a little while ago? I thought I was pretty hardcore doing it when it was 22 degrees out. Even more hardcore when I did it in the rain. I just went out in 28 degrees C skin-spitroasting-sun weather and only managed a mile and a half before feeling like a dehydrated jellyfish. Utter fail.

Anyway, yesterday. It was alright! At least I felt happy enough, the guy was indeed fun to talk to as I'd suspected and the hour in the coffee shop before I had to go meet my friend Jules went pretty fast. I made the mistake of choosing a size Massive coffee after a week's coffee prohibition though and spent the whole hour trying to act as little like I was about to be sick and then pass out as possible, but I think I covered it quite well. I think. I've discovered that I have a weird automatic response to feeling slightly awkward in new social situations: shaking people's hands way too often. It's weirdly overly formal, I've got to stop that. In any case, it was fun hearing a bit about what it's like to be on the guy-end of speed dating and the like.

So he texted me his email a little while after, which I guess means I didn't weird him out too much. His email address does have '1337' in it though so there's a small chance I might have been trolled (if you don't know the significance of 1337, look up 'leetspeak' and then bear in mind it has the same trendiness as 'YOLO' nowadays), but that's just me being a smidge overly analytical. Other than that, I didn't spontaneously combust into flames of embarrassment and shame, and neither did he, so I'd mark that as a pretty successful interaction between two human beings, even if that's the last I hear from Daniel-Does-Not-Do-Comicon. Therefore I close this experiment on myself, and anything related to this experiment that may or may not happen afterwards will just be put down to Life. Or possibly Irony. Most likely a bit of both.

Oh, and although I failed at running in the heat today, my training is definitely paying off: when I realised that I'd left my phone in the coffee shop whilst I was waiting for Jules, I sprinted a whole 300 metres back to the coffee shop, where my phone was thankfully waiting for me, and then 300 metres back again to meet my friend on time. It was 30 degrees out. Win. Although the sudden caffeine spike may have helped...

~Fin~

Short Stories: How I Ran into my 'Oppoganger'

Or, more precisely, how she almost ran into me.

I just managed to run a steady 2 miles (2.07 to be exact), for the first time ever, this time last year being the first time I ran a mile in my life (I know it's not fast progress, but I didn't run during autumn, winter or our very crappy UK spring). My new route also has a beastly hill that I defeated. Go me!

At the end of my run I always have a brisk walk around the block as my cooldown exercise. I still had my music on really loud so I didn't hear the other runner coming up from behind me, so my heart jumped a little bit when they brushed past me and (literally) jogged on.

As I glanced up, I swear everything went in slow motion for a few seconds.

Because, readers, running ahead of me was what I can only accurately describe as my 'oppoganger': (opposite doppelganger).

She and I were both of the same height, both had very long, wavy hair, and both had our hair tied up in a regular 3-strand braid, running all the way down to our waists and tailing behind us in the wind like streamers.

However, my figure is of the 1940s hourglass kind, hers was the Nordic slender kind; my skin is porcelain pale, while hers was beach-bronzed; my hair is a very dark brown, whereas hers was a peroxide white blonde. Finally, I was wearing a modest but sleek black jogging outfit, while she was wearing neon hotpants and a crop top.

Huh.

I shook myself out of my reverie and suddenly felt defensive, because I was only walking while she was running on. 'I just ran two miles!!' I silently shouted after her.

~Fin~

Tash's Running Delivery Service

Studio Ghibli and anime fans may know a film called Kiki's Flying Delivery service.

A couple of weeks ago I was up bright and early for my morning weekend run, dressing in my Lycra running gear and kitted out with my sports watch and mp3 player strapped to my forearm. Just before I stepped out, mum (who happens to also get up early) collared me.

"Ah, Tash. I was going to pop out to the baker's to get some bread rolls for the week, but since you're going out, I was wondering if you'd run down there and get some for me?"

I considered this for a moment.

"So you want me to run there, in all my Lycra glory, straight into the shop, beet-red in the face and sweating like a pig, and run back with a bag full of rolls?"

"Yes, please."

"... Okay."

It's a mile to Mill Hill Broadway (well, 1.1miles) one way, which is just over half of my normal running circuit around my area, so I was quite happy to do it in terms of getting my usual workout. I was, perhaps, a little less happy to be running through a busy high street and into a quaint little shop where less-than-unusual things tend to happen for the poor unsuspecting owners, but I've never been one to give a fig about what people think (or so I try and tell myself).

Now, my face turns maroon (yes, maroon. Not red. Maroon.) at any sign of physical exertion. I don't have to be out of breath or the least bit tired, my face goes maroon, which is a terrible pity because it makes me look a great deal less fit than I actually am. Anyway, I'd only just managed to run my first mile non-stop a few days before, so I was glowing like Rudolph's nose and heaving like a fish out of water by the time I entered the shop.

Did I mention it had started to rain halfway through my run? It had started to rain halfway through my run. (So I was also quite damp.)

The owner watched me apprehensively behind the counter as I picked up a pair of tongs and began filling a bag with rolls, trying to act as nonchalantly as possible (an impressive feat, I think, whilst glowing like Rudolph's nose and heaving like a fish out of water). When I went to pay for the rolls, he gingerly dropped the change in the palm of my hand whilst leaning backwards, as if afraid I'd detonate like a bomb if he wasn't careful. I smiled as charmingly as I could whilst gasping for air, and made my way back home, clutching the bag of bread rolls to my chest to protect them from the rain whilst hoping passers by wouldn't think I'd stolen them from the bakery.

Last weekend, however: progress. I was a little less out of breath from my run since I'd improved during the week (if, alas, no less maroon), and managed to get a nervous smile from the owner when I handed the money over. I've decided that this is quite fun, and I'll try to do it every week. Who knows? Maybe in a few weeks' time the shops will decide my escapades are quite useful in a novel way and I'll become Tash's Running Delivery Service!

~Fin~

Short Story: A Domesticated Disney Moment

This morning the sun was (briefly) shining, I had the house to myself and I was feeling pretty kickass after a morning run, so to make my unusually quiet day even more awesome I decided to do one of the things I like doing best: bake.

I had a pretty summer dress on, and was swanning about barefoot on the just-mopped kitchen tiles. I donned my apron, cracked out my mixing bowl and wooden spoon and got to work. At some point in the process, I started to sing. So here I was, mixing bowl in the crook of my arm, stirring away with my wooden spoon and singing in my dress and apron and bare feet, when I turned around.

My two cats, both of whom at best only seem to tolerate each other and are seldom seen in the same room together, were sitting side-by-side in the middle of the kitchen, close enough for their whiskers to touch, watching me.

My face split into a smile at the sight- how lovely to see the two so close together! I turned around to continue my work, very pleased with how my quiet Sunday was turning out, when I glanced out of the glass doors and into the garden.

The smile on my face froze in disbelief.

Outside in my previously-empty little garden were about a dozen birds of various varieties, on the lawn, fence and bushes.

It was sheer coincidence that a load of birds gathered in my garden for no apparent reason while I danced and flounced and baked, and it probably was the sound of me singing that summoned my cats (whether I was any good or not!), but I'd like to believe I have magical Disney Princess powers anyway.

~Fin~

Short Stories: Awkward Conversations with Strangers (Part 1)

Awkward Conversations with Strangers, like Making an Utter Arse of Myself, is going to be a series in itself, since it also seems to happen to me frequently.

I've recently started exercising a whole lot more (that is to say, for the past year I have been exercising a lot, but I've upped my game recently), and decided today that I'm fed up of having to wash my one sports bra over and over again when I'm basically Exercising with a capital E almost every day- so that's how I found myself in the lingerie section of M&S today.

There was only one other person in front of me in the queue and one person serving at the tills. Once that customer had gone, I went up to take my turn. Just as I got to the till, the SA behind it started trying to re-fit one of those stretchy girdle granny pants things onto its hanger, and told me she'd be with me in a moment. I smiled and told her that was fine.

Some moments passed as she struggled to stretch the thing enough to snap the clippy hanger on, only to have it ping back. I offered to give her a hand, but she declined. I could see she was getting a bit frustrated, so to break the tension I started talking (of course).

"You know, I got stuck in one of those, once," I laughed. The SA glanced up at me, then without a word went back to her task. I decided to continue, because leaving that statement hanging in the air felt a lot more awkward.

"Well, it wasn't exactly that style, it was a full-body one. I tried one on in the changing rooms just for the hell of it once, and I got stuck with it jammed over my head with my arms sticking out from the top. I was stuck in there for so long an assistant actually knocked on the door and asked if I was alright- I was too embarrassed to admit I was stuck, so I just said 'I'm fine, thanks!' Luckily I managed to get it off myself, after a bit more of a struggle."

The SA twanged the girdle successfully onto its hanger and looked up at me like I was some kind of an idiot. "You know, you're supposed to try on the size according to your dress size. For example... " She looked me up and down appraising. "You'd be a size 14 I suppose, so you'd have to try on a size 14. Or if you're a size 16, you'd try on a size 16."

I suddenly lost all of my friendly feels. "I did try on my size. And actually I'm a size 8 to 10."

I'd say we completed the transaction in silence, had the SA not said my bra size aloud quite loudly as she scanned it in- by which time a larger queue had built up.

~Fin~

Weight Loss: Battling with Yourself and the People Around You

'You've put on weight', said mum, circling me like a trader sizing up a horse at market. 'Your dress looks tigher on you than before.'

Indeed, I had put on two pounds recently, from a lapse in my exercise routine, lack of sleep from insomnia (which every so often I'm plagued by) and, more depressingly, a recent lack of self-control when it comes to grapes and strawberries (which are cruel and sneaky and masquerade as healthy fruit when in fact they pack a load of natural sugar). In fact, I've already lost one of those pounds since laying off those tricksy strawberries and buying a skipping rope to force myself to exercise at home when I'm unable to go to classes after work, and I'm on track to being at the weight I was when I got the dress altered by the end of the week- but of course that's not the sort of thing mums notice. My mum being a Chinese mum (and here I may sound a little controversial), few things I do are ever quite satisfactory. Also, when you're a lot slimmer than you used to be, an extra pound or two can be noticable.

Today, I was making some last-minute alterations to my bridemaid's dress, as one of my best friends (the same one who witnessed the whole incident with the chocolate shop guy in my previous entry) is getting married next week (and I'm the maid of honour, woot! But that's not really part of the story, I'm just bragging). I've lost two stone in a year (which is a lot), and had the dress altered recently to fit my new less wobbly and less chunky figure. It was perfect except the shoulder covers were a bit long, so I tucked and sewed them shorter today. I made the mistake of modelling the finished article in front of my mum (who I thought would be pleased, as she was pleased with how well the dress had been altered to fit my size when I had it done).

'You went to all that trouble to get your dress done, and now you aren't even bothering to watch your weight!' She exclaimed, with the inexplicable glimmer of triumph that my mum always gets when discovering something I've been trying to hide and then ticking me off for it.

Well, that's not really fair- I have been watching my weight. I watch it like a hawk all the time. It's just that recently I've watched it go up a little.

Anyone who's ever loved food and successfully been on a diet will know that losing weight's only one battle: the real war is with maintaining it. I've been very diligent (well, mostly- I underestimated fruit and, alright, maybe stumbled upon a few more cakes than usual). So diligent in fact, that some of my friends have expressed a bit of concern that I might be on a dodgy track: but it's okay, I know my brain works in slightly obsessive ways when it comes to calorie counting and nutrition percentages sometimes, but I can also recognise when I'm being a bit too crazy. However my parents didn't seem to trust me, and of course mum was quite vocal about it.

Flash forward to a couple of months ago.

'Only a small bowl?' Frowned my mum at dinner time, glancing alternately between me and my bowl of stew.

'I bought an extra banana at lunch at work today,' I said, knowing it did sound a bit mad but trying to explain, 'so I have to sacrifice a few calories this evening to balance it out.'

'You have to eat more,' scolded mum, 'you're becoming anorexic!'

There. That word was finally mentioned.

I was not, have never been and will never be anorexic. I simply love food too much, and believe you or me, when I'm calorie counting I get the most out of every single calorie. However quite a few times I've been ticked off for not eating enough, despite the fact by this stage I was reaching my optimal weight and was now losing weight more and more slowly.

Flash forward to this afternoon.

'You haven't been eating the right things,' continued mum, whilst I seethed about how someone could tell me off at one moment for turning into an anorexic, and at the next moment for not watching my weight enough. 'Like those three puddings you bought for yourself two weeks ago.'

'What, the WeightWatchers ones?' I exclaimed incredulously.

She's right of course, just not in the way she thinks. It's not always what you eat, but how and when and of course, how much of it you eat. I thought I was being healthy and appeasing my parents at the same time by increasing my food intake a bit, but in the end I misjudged and I wasn't doing anyone any favours: especially not me.

So now I'm back on the straight in narrow, and just in time for my friend's wedding!