It's a Conspiracy!

The days are dwindling. One week—seven too-short days—from today I will be 60. And my body is just imploding!

Sunday a week ago the Jazzman and I went for a walk around the neighborhood. (He's being very supportive of my doctor's order to get back in shape.) We were not three houses away when I tripped over the uneven sidewalk and fall with a resounding thwack! on my left knee. I caught myself with my left elbow and the palms of both hands, but my knee bore the brunt of the fall. I have since seen the doctor, gotten x-rays, and learned that the knee is not fractured. It's just a contusion, a very painful, sprained knee that will take about six weeks to heal. Okay, I guess I can live with that.

The Jazzman and a posse of friends and relations go up to a community of cottages along the shore of Lake Erie every 4th of July week. I've been invited along. They play a lot of golf. I took golf in my first year of college, 42 years ago. I thought I'd pick up a club again and see if it's something I want to pursue, an interest that we can share.

Last Saturday morning, we headed off to Mill Creek Park to play nine holes on the par 3 course. He is a wonderful, patient, kind teacher. I couldn't ask for a better teacher. I had a wonderful time playing golf with him, and I didn't do too badly. It made me think John was wrong when he said I didn't have the temperament for golf. I think I could really find a lot of enjoyment in golf.

But choosing to start my learning again on the heels—or knees—of a painful injury? Not too smart!

By Sunday morning, when we were discussing going out for another nine, I realized I was in tremendous pain and all my twisting and turning and stress to the knee on Saturday was about the worst thing I could have done to facilitate the healing of this knee!!!

Yesterday I was having great difficulty descending stairs from my office to the kitchen. Friday we're going to Chicago for the weekend and planning on doing a lot of walking. Why do I not have a good feeling about my ability to get around Chicago easily?

And continuing with the conspiracy theory, yesterday I had three migraine attacks, the third one ending in excruciating pain to the right side of my head. And yes, the pain came on while I was driving to Cleveland for rehearsal, where I was going to have to learn the Russian necessary to master the 1812 Overture.

It's just one damned body part after another. Clink, clank, clunk. Can you hear them hitting the ground?!

Shake a Leg!

I told you last week about my conversation with my doctor regarding my recent decreased lung function. I told her my plan was to walk every day on my way to "the office." However, the weather had been cold and wet and, generally, unenticing. I walked around the block one day when I got home from doing the banking for my boss. My block is only ten minutes around, so I need to make it two blocks or more. But regardless, I haven't done it. My butt is not off the chair. I am not exercising.

I've decided to learn enough golf to be able to play a few rounds when the Jazzman and I go to the lake for the week of July 4th. We were going to go to the Par 3 course at Mill Creek Metroparks on Sunday morning, but we ended up working on the house instead. So when he said he had a 2:30 tee time with his golf buddies, I suddenly decided I was going to go walk along with them.

When we arrived at the Mill Creek course, all the wives had come along, so I paired up with the wives and walked the three-mile course. I watched everything they were doing—each stance, each swing—and felt I would be welcomed by this group, no matter how poorly I played. (I've always heard that in golf you're only playing against yourself, anyway.)

Now, when I say I walked the three-mile course, please be mindful that it was not constant, steady, fast-paced walking. It was walk to the first tee, wait for the two young guys ahead of us to clear the green, then hit-chase-hit-chase the ball until we got to the green, then walk to the next tee and repeat. It was a lot of standing, some walking, and two sit-downs on available benches.

I'm not complaining; let's be clear about that! I'm just saying it wasn't exactly aerobic activity. But activity it was. When I woke up on Monday morning, I could hardly get my body out of the bed. Every muscle and tendon—and, yes, even my bones—hurt. Ached. Burned. If ever there was an indicator that I'm out of shape physically, my sensations on Monday morning were the clear indicator.

Must. Get. Exercise.

But, oh, what a gorgeous day it was in the Mahoning Valley on Sunday afternoon. Blue skies, puffy clouds, around 72 degrees.

It was the kind of day that makes up for all the gray, rainy, cold, snowy, foggy, cloudy days that seem to be in abundance in this part of the world.

Until I master what to do with clubs and little white balls, I'm perfectly happy walking a round or two with my friends.

Hit Me Again!

If there's one name that everyone in Youngstown and the Mahoning Valley knows, it's Kelly Pavlik. He's our boy, our hero. He's achieved success in his chosen career and the locals love him.

That said, I don't understand why anyone would choose the career path he has chosen.

The Jazzman and I went to his cousin's house on Saturday night to watch the match. Pavlik was defending his World Boxing Organization and World Boxing Council middleweight champion title. The title was taken away from him at the end of the night by Sergio Martinez.

Let me restate the obvious. I don't like violence. I don't like being mean to people. I don't like movies where people get hurt. I don't like activities where people get hurt. I can't imagine hitting someone in anger or in sport.

(Yes, my parents spanked me and yes, I spanked my kids. That's how we attempted to correct perceived problems in that day and age. Is that different? Or is that not different at all?)

From the first punch that opened a gash over Pavlik's left eye, I had a hard time watching. It seemed everytime Pavlik came back to the center ring, Martinez tried to hit him hard again in the same spot. Pavlik couldn't see where to throw a punch because there was blood streaming into his eyes. I could not watch the screen. I made the time pass more quickly by watching the Twitter feed to see what people were saying about the fight. (And, yes, I am one of those people who covers her eyes at movies.)

I watch football games. Okay, I won't sit down and turn on the television to a football game, but if someone I'm with wants to watch, I'll watch. And I enjoy it. But I don't like the part where people get hurt. Hockey? Forget it. My older son loves hockey. To me, it's just an excuse to have a fight.

I don't fight. I don't even say mean things to people. So how do you explain wanting to hit people for a living?

I do feel really bad for Kelly after Saturday night's bout, and I hope his injuries heal quickly and he figures out what to do next.

But I just don't get it.