First day back. Not so much a petulant child, more sensible adult with an exquisite remove. At least that was the image I had of myself throughout the day as I lightly padded my way through my contracted hours in my especially supportive trainers.
I always feel a little guilty about wearing my trainers if I’m not running. It’s as though they’re crying out when I put them on in the morning. “Your don’t seem to be wearing your stupid dry-fit running gear. Why is that? You’re not using us just for walking, are you? Loser.”
I have an excuse. Rather, I have good reason. My back is killing me. Lower back. Shooting, burning pains. I can’t bend down without having to plan out each individual move in my head first. I make a strategic assessment about the value of the thing I’m bending down to reach for. If it’s not important enough, its overlooked. The cats haven’t had any attention for days.
So, I take myself off to the Marvellous Debbie in Forest Hill. Before becoming an expert Shiatsu therapist, Debbie was a dresser for a variety of West End shows back in the day when Cats was at its height and Phantom was giving the impression that Lloyd-Webber was unstoppable. We’ve known each other for as long as me and The Husband have. She is a miracle worker.
While she has me face down on the floor, groaning and wincing, we talk about Elaine Paige and her dog, Marti Pellow’s questionable contribution to the semi-staged performance of Benny, Bjorn and Rice’s Chess, and the most recent episode of Sherlock.
When she’s finished prodding and poking, discussing the various exercises I need to do in order to maintain my now corrected posture. “You have a flabby core,” she says, “you need to pay attention to it.”
She confirms that running should be forgotten about while I pay more attention to planking. “Start with the easy stuff,” she says, resting her body on the floor on her elbows, “Plank for a minute. After a few days increase it to two minutes.” God help me. We go through the basics of standing, commuting, and walking before I hand over my £45 and leave. Desperate to put things into practise immediately, I get to the bus stop convinced I’ve spent the previous ten minutes walking like a baboon.
Back home, post-bath and mid-wine I’m feeling toasty. Tomorrow can wait. And I know that when my core says so, running will be something I’ll happily return to. In the meantime however, I’ll be avoiding those judgemental trainers of mine.
This year I’m returning to my blogging roots and writing a daily journal.
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