Do Jellyfish Eat Oreos?

There’s a reason that there hasn’t been a running post on here in a while.  I’m not running anymore the only running you will see on this post from now on are run-on sentences.  As much as I loved it, my ankles, knees, and back did not.  I’ve had to face the fact that my riding accident ended joint pounding athletics for me.  Osteochondral lesions, potential surgery, months of physical therapy, and the thought of unattractive fashion choices among hospital gowns that leave my ass exposed are some of the things that have led me to this difficult decision.  And difficult it was.  For a while, I convinced myself that I could continue.  However, hobbling home after what should have been an easy three-mile run convinced me that grinding my joints to dust would not be in my best interests unless I wanted to spend my life as a jellyfish.  As appealing as floating around my apartment consuming everything within reach of my grasping fingers may be, I do not want to end up with my own TLC program, The Jellyfish Woman, sandwiched between showings of The Woman with the Talking Tumor and The Man with Three Brains.  That last show is fascinating. As we all know, men usually only have two thinking organs.

I can walk.  I can use the elliptical machine.  But no running. What has surprised me is how the news that my running days are over has affected me.  We’re talking depression, folks.  Woe is me and all that shit.  I have been cranky, moody, and weepy.  Ordinarily I run when the cRazY strikes.  But that is no longer an option.  So I go for a walk.  Well, dye my hair blue and call me Hazel!  All I need is a velour tracksuit and a few stories about my home in Boca and I’m all set.  As I power walk in the park, runners pass me and I wonder if they think I’m lazy or lack the mental toughness it takes to be a runner.  Because I am not lazy.  I am a procrastinator.  There’s a difference!  Laziness is sitting on the couch in the dark because you don’t feel like getting up to turn on the light.  Procrastination is . . . well, I’ll tell you later.

Ironically, since I’ve started walking as exercise I’ve lost four pounds.  Four pounds!  In one week!  What the hell?  When I was running it would take me weeks to lose four pounds.  I like to think that it has something to do with my awareness that consuming a Starbucks Luscious Lemon Tart has greater repercussions on the circumference of my hips now that I’m no longer doing five mile laps in the park.  Believe it or not, a pack of Oreos has been sitting in the kitchen sniffling and whining about loneliness for over a week.  But I resist, muttering protective spells and making the sign of the food pyramid.  Instead of reaching for the chocolaty double-stuffed goodness, I grab an apple. 

The Cougar was up visiting last week and helped me stock my kitchen with healthy food.  I’ve been cooking healthy meals but grazing snacking sabotages me.  I need things that can be prepared quickly and eaten on the go.  Or in front of the TV.  So The Cougar and I went grocery shopping. “Do you like bananas?” she asked, holding up a yellow crescent-moon shaped object.  “Ba-na-na?  What mean this thing ‘ba-na-na’?” She was not amused.  “Fruit, you need to eat more fruit,” she insisted.  Now, I’m no stranger to fruit, I eat the garnish on my frozen alcoholic beverages.  But fruit all on its own?  With no margarita to accompany it?  Who does such a thing?  I loaded my cart with apples, grapes, oranges, and berries but put the kibosh on unsweetened fruit cocktail.  My idea of a fruit cocktail is a gin soaked olive.  Anything else is just obscene. 

So, I’ve been walking and reaching for fruit and veggies, leaving the Oreos to whine plaintively on the shelf.  I miss running.  I miss the endorphins, I miss the zen of breath and body, and I miss the freak parade and my fellow runners , but I think I would miss my joints and cartilage more. 

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