atrophy

last night i finally decided i was tired of the chicken-skin flubber accumulating under my arms these past 6 weeks of ergonomic ennui. rotator cuff be damned, it was time to lift some weights again.

i thought i'd take it easy, start lower than necessary to avoid re-injury, which would just prolong the state of flappity-flap. so i approached the 'bitch bench,' nestled in a corner far, far away from the grunting, lifting, sweating bulk of man heaving rusty iron in the other corner. all the weights are pink, rubber-coated, and friendly. i can imagine someone making a small fortune inscribing motivational messages on these cute little dumbbells...'lookin' good,' 'please eat dinner tonight,' 'daddy still loves you.'

moving these 10 pound pink objects - which are more like accessories than work-out equipment - i felt a sense of shame. of humility. there i am in my collegiate crew team shirt, lifting abut 1/3 of what i was doing 2 months ago. back when i still had some self-respect. i felt like the biggest pussy ever, and wished i were socially inept to just voluntarily inform bystanders of my injury, my need to get back in the game, how much it sucks to do rehab.

alas, i am a well-adjusted masochist; i endured the odd looks and smirks, and left identifying with weak pussies nationwide, having taken a step in their shoes.

and i was sore today.