The Bare Facts

Two weeks.  It’s been two weeks since I’ve been running.  In that time I’ve made up for my lack of lower body work by working other parts of my body.  Lifting Oreos, spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry’s, and candy corn has built my upper arms.  And lower fl-abs.  And hips.  Yesterday I realized that I didn’t want seven months of work and 15 pounds lost to go to waist so I started running again. 

In the weeks leading up to my knee injury, my passion for running had started to wane.  I was more concerned about miles, pace, and whether my running shorts were giving me a wedgie that would look unflattering in the pictures at the finish line than about my feet pounding the pavement and the zen effect of emptying my mind of everything but breath and movement. 

This injury has actually made me not just step back but step off the running track and reevaluate my goals.  My goal was to get healthy.  Check.  My goal was to lose weight.  Check.  The marathon was incentive.  It was not my goal.  Although when we added the stay at a cute bed and breakfast the weekend of the marathon and the potential of the bright shiny medal when I crossed the finish line, running the marathon became the goal.  And you know what these past two weeks have taught me?  Fuck that!  Yep, fuck that.  I run because I’m a runner.  While I do hope to complete a marathon someday, if I don’t, I am still Fan-fucking-tastic! 

So, I ran this weekend.  A measly mile.  Just one mile.  But I felt great.  My knee felt great.  I wanted to run more but I didn’t push it.  My sports doctor said I could run three to five miles without causing any harm but my sports doctor is an asshat.  Really, the bitch didn’t know what the fuck she was talking about.  The visit did not begin well and I think that may have clouded her judgment.  My appointment was for the midafternoon.  I was working on my thesis which is OH MY GOD DUE IN THREE WEEKS when I realized that I must have slipped into a black hole, or fallen asleep at my desk, because one minute I was taking notes and the next, I had twenty minutes to get to my appointment. 

There was no time to shower or shave my legs, which hadn’t seen the sharp edge of a Gillette since my bikini wax a few days earlier.  Yes, I like to be as hairless as possible before getting my bikini wax.  For some reason, I think the absence of hair on other parts of my body will somehow negate the horrifying effect of the Chewbacca growth sprouting from my hooha.  Lisa has never commented on the silky smoothness of my legs but –what?  Yes, Lisa and I are on a first name basis.  Look, if someone is applying hot wax to your nether regions and pulling your hair out by the roots, you are either on a first name basis or you have a gimp mask and a safe word if things get too out of hand.  Anyway, Lisa has never commented on the silky smoothness of my legs but I know she must talk to her co-workers once I leave.  I can just imagine them gathering around the water cooler with their plastic cups sticking to the wax remnants on their hands as she says, “You know that Dingo, she gets as hairy as a Tribble if she misses an appointment but DAMN if she doesn’t have the smoothest silkiest legs that have ever brushed against my forearms!”

Anyway, there was no time for hair removal as I dashed out the door.  Twenty minutes later I’m in the exam room waiting for Dr. Asshat to enter wondering if I had time to use the sharp, unidentifiable medical utensil on the counter to scrape my legs to baby smoothness.  As I was pondering the benefits of using foaming hand sanitizer as shaving lotion, one of the assistants came in and placed a folder and a tiny blue square of tissues on the counter.  She told me to take off my clothes from the waist down, leaving my underwear on.  Um, remember when I said that I hadn’t shaved in a few days?  Yeah, I’ve been so busy that 5 minutes to shave was a luxury I didn’t have.  Hours to do laundry? Fuggedabouddit!  Yes, that’s right.  No laundry.  No underwear.  Basically, I was to strip down to my t-shirt and the skin god gave me.  With dry, scaly, stubbly legs.  Shoot. Me. Now.

Let’s recap, shall we?  No shower.  No shaving.  No underwear.  It couldn’t get any worse right?  Oh, come on now, folks!  This is Dingo we’re talking about!  Of course it could get worse!

As I knelt to take off my shoes I realized that I had worn my old running shoes.  The shoes I had already logged 250+ miles in.  To say that they stunk would be too kind.  They reeked.  They smelled like dead things.  Dingo Girl has tried to bury them more than once and Mr. Dingo refuses to be in the same room with them.  But they are soooo comfortable I can’t get rid of them. Anyway, when I removed the Shoes of Death a mushroom cloud of funk filled the room.  I frantically tried to open the one window in the room but it was painted shut – a fact that would soon be remedied as the paint started to curl and peel when the Aroma of Death hit it.  But I didn’t have time!  I could hear Dr. Asshat outside the exam room door flipping through my charts.  Her hand was on the door knob.  Quick!  Quick!  Do something! 

I didn’t want her to come in as I was standing bare assed by the window so I leapt onto the exam table with a loud crash as she walked into the room.  I don’t know what hit her first.  The sight of my bare ass sliding across the table or the Aroma of Death.  She had a look of terror on her face and I think the only thing that kept her in the room was her Hypocratic Oath, which at the time sounded something like “DAY-UM!” I sat hunched over in a C-shape on the table trying to hide my girl bits when Dr. Asshat politely demanded asked if I would like a robe.  “Yes!  Yes! Thank you!” I responded with relief.  Then she went over to the counter and handed me the tiny 5 inch square of tissue the assistant had laid on the counter.  Turns out, it was not a pile of tissue but a pair of nylonish boxer shorts.  How was I to know that minuscule piece of fabric was for me to wear?!  I put on the shorts and the consultation began.

With that inauspicious opening, did the exam really have a chance in hell of going well?  No.  No, it didn’t.  I won’t go into detail about it but let’s just say that Dr. Asshat earned her name.  To be fair, I know that as soon as I left she was telling the rest of the office about me, Patient Bare Ass.  I’m supposed to go back for a follow-up visit in three weeks but I think I’m going to make an appointment with someone else. 

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