Plans don’t always work out. I was gonna get up with a skip in my step and lightness in my heart. I’d then finish work early, get to the gym, have a relaxing dinner and head off to Fleet Foxes at Massey Hall. A neat, enjoyable day. Instead I awoke to the cat going nuts around 6am. My body was unduly achy and I my brain wouldn’t calm back down to restfulness. Plans deviated.
Instead of relishing a full night’s rest, I groaned on my way out of bed, nary skip nor lightness to be found. My ankle had been sore over the past few days. I’d been pushing cardio hard and my ankle was giving me its equivalent of a middle finger. With Tough Mudder looming in two weeks, I couldn’t afford to let myself get badly injured. I didn’t jog yesterday and while I was keen to get into it today, my nerves said no. It didn’t hurt to walk, but a mild twinge every once in a while said that something wasn’t kosher (like some Canadian beef sausages, apparently). At 6am instead of sleeping, I was foam rolling. I can tell you by far which I’d rather be doing.
Foam rolling is hubris personified. It’s so physically painful, but the part that really hurts is knowing that you did it to yourself. You’re paying for errors in form or pushing yourself too far. The only more demeaning thing than foam rolling at 6am is foam rolling naked at 6am on a floor that hasn’t been vacuumed in far too long. Pulling your support hand off the ground only to have amassed a grip full of cat hair and pubes really twists the knife. If I’d had pride in that moment instead of just aches, it would’ve been hurt something fierce. I didn’t, I just had aches, which hurt. Standing up after 15-20 minutes of intense myofascial release, my body slumped as if the spirit possessing me got sucked into a ghost trap. I didn’t feel feverish, but my skin was clammy and I thought I might puke. I didn’t, thankfully (though that’d likely give me cause to clean and vacuum).
I thought about skipping work, but remembered that before the long weekend, tons of team members would be absent. While I was fully within my rights to take a sick day, it’d put strain on those left in the office and that’d be a shitty thing to do. I could instead work remotely and hopefully be done by midday or so. I shambled off to get coffee, but found out my favourite local cafe was closed. Every other cafe in an immediate radius to me is backwash, so I had no choice but to try somewhere new. It also, was backwash. Don’t go there for the coffee. At least I had shitty coffee on a day when I was feeling low, rather than ruining a perfectly fine one.
Over the past few hours my body has been relaxing, knowing just how long I’ve been waiting to see Fleet Foxes. I’ve booked in a 90 minute massage to hopefully get rid of a ton of lactic acid and Gordian knots throughout my muscles. I’m wary that if my masseur pushes too hard I might burst like a sealed cereal bag. Then he’d have cause to clean and vacuum.
While plans haven’t worked out, it’s made me pretty appreciative for a life that lets me operate even when I’m feeling like stirred shit. I’m able to work remotely, rather than spending nearly an hour in transit each way. Even if coffee was shit, I know that in a pinch (e.g. not during their vacation week) I can get decent coffee from Contra. Lastly, if my body feels bent and broken, I have the ability to get care and attention from a health professional. On a day where the sun sags a little in the sky, at least it’s still shining down.