Achilles' Heel

It wasn’t the first day of the year. Nor was it my birthday. But yesterday was a day of resolutions. Why? Well, when your almost 3-yr old tells you “Mummy, your tummy is like Daddy Pig’s”, you know it wasn’t really a compliment (for the uninitiated, Daddy Pig is Peppa Pig’s dad, whose tummy walks at least 500m ahead of the rest of his body).

So I decide to make my tummy history. I call up many local fitness clubs and gyms, and finally book a class in one. Brimming with excitement, I get into my workout gear and wait for “A” to get back from work and drive me to the centre. My little girl throws a tantrum saying she wanted to “exerzist” too. But I tell her that any more “exerzist” will make her vanish, and that will make me very sad.

“A”, of course, is very happy that I have finally taken the plunge. He is at his super-supportive avatar, not complaining at all about having to give the little missy her shower and dinner all on his own (a task that would make even Iron Man poop his pants).

Two seconds at the centre, and I have a panic attack of sorts. Not only was there no overweight person like me, there was nobody my age or fitness level. A room full of young girls who looked like they run triathlons for a living…and a friendly instructor who ran a boot-camp style routine. They had determination written on their faces, eyebrows squished and lips tightened to focus on their fiftieth squat. I was clearly in the wrong class.

Anyhow, I join the routine after a feeble attempt at cracking a joke about my fitness. I thought I would die after two squats, but I didn’t. In fact, it started to feel like fun. Why? Well, looking at the mirrored walls of the studio, I couldn’t help but think “mirror, mirror on the wall…who is the fittest of them all”. So I gulped my laughter and stretched my legs, up down, up down….squat, now stand…now jump…now lie down and touch your knee with your nose, and all this while, remember to breathe. Are you kidding me? It felt like running on a treadmill blindfolded, with a plastic bag over my face! I couldn’t stop…and I definitely couldn’t breathe.

While the Iron Ladies went on like they were having a stroll in the park, Daddy Pig panted and puffed. And then, snap snap snap. What was that? It was Daddy Pig’s knee. Something had snapped and I found myself sitting on the floor. Embarrassed, but trying to appear calm, I assure them that it was nothing major. But they wouldn’t believe me, especially after one of them swore she heard my bones snap! So I had them all fuss over me, help me sit on a chair with pillows under my feet, until “A” arrived to take me back home.

The look on his face…I cannot even describe it. If I had been running on a treadmill blindfolded, he looked like he was made to run on one after someone had pulled out his eyeballs. And to think that a 3-yr old is capable of such torture techniques over her bath and dinner is nothing less than bone-chilling! Anyway, given I couldn’t walk very well on my own, he helped me into the car and let me narrate my story. After a minute of silence (like they do in memory of someone who has passed away), he says “You know what, you are just fine the way you are”. Meaning “Please don’t ever do this again…to yourself or me”.

That night, the pain wasn’t too bad, so I went to bed early. In the morning, my leg was a tree trunk. My knee was swollen and it felt like I had metal chains tied to my right leg. I managed to get an afternoon appointment with our doctor, so I went to work limping.  I regretted it straight away. No, not because the pain got worse…but because everyone wanted to know what had happened. And although a “sports injury” is often quite cool, it’s actually quite awkward when it’s difficult to explain whether I had the injury due to sports or the lack of it (my shape definitely supports the latter).

At the doctor’s clinic, he asked me to sit and then stand up, stretch my leg and then fold my knee. Oh, the irony! He almost sounded like the fitness instructor. And when he inspected my knee closely and said he suspected ligament tear, all I could think of was…”thank god, my legs are shaved”.

P.S. I need to get a CT Scan – Arthogram done to find the extent of my physical injury. As for the mental trauma and embarrassment….there’s nothing that a bottle of wine doesn’t fix.

Moral of the story: “Perfection cannot be improved”. So don’t hurt yourself trying too hard!

And one for the ladies: Always have your legs shaved/waxed (whatever your weapon of choice) even if it’s winter and you know they’ll never be exposed. Life will find a way to catch you unguarded.

Edited to add: Turns out (after a CT scan) that I have two torn menisci and may need surgery and/or physio to recover. Damn.