A Bucket And A Rock

Today I’m just this side of useless.

Hubs and I have been in training to become MMA fighters…well Hubs bought a book written by an MMA trainer, which is nearly the same thing.

Guaranteed to make you look like a beast. Actual fighting skills not included.

I love this book. I did one of the workouts and then strutted up and down our street in a roid rage, looking for someone to choke out. All I could find was our 90-year old neighbor and he’s in a different weight class, so I haven’t technically put my title on the line, but I’m pretty sure that I’m invincible. Seriously, I am this close to earning a Tap Out t-shirt and a tribal armband tattoo.

I’ve been following the book’s diet plan religiously: no refined foods, lot’s of whole grains, fruits and veggies.  Because you can eat like a hippie and not lose your agro edge, which is important to know if you chase gang members for a living or shop at Target on a weekend. The diet has me feeling like a finely tuned machine. A washing machine, but not just any washing machine. A really good one. Like a front loading Whirlpool with all of the extra settings that I would never use.

But here’s the thing about a deluxe Whirlpool washer, you need to treat it well. You don’t dump a bunch of crayons and gum in it and expect your next load to be pristine…are you getting lost in my metaphor? See, I’m the washer and the crayons and gum are…yeah, I know my metaphor sucks. What do you expect from a gummy, crayon filled washer?

Somewhere in those suds is a better metaphor. (image via dreamstime)

You see, yesterday after my yoga class I was feeling a little smug and self empowered, so I impulsively decided to treat myself to a piece of key lime cheesecake, as a reward for my hard work and potential bad@ssery. I took my cheesecake home where I ate it in half hour increments because that makes it healthier…in my mind, you know, where it counts. I haven’t had any refined sugar for a couple of weeks so I caught a rush off that cheesecake like a cheap date.

Then we went to a little shindig at our neighbor’s house, which turned out to be a dessert party. I have the feeling MMA fighters don’t hang out at dessert parties. Whole grains and vegetables were notably absent and all of the fruit was coated in custard.

I was strong. At first. But I got hungry and the kids didn’t eat all of their treats and I hate to waste food and did I mention I was hungry? So I had a little off their plate. I mean plates. And by a little I mean that I licked those plates clean. And then I had a teeny tiny dark chocolate, espresso brownie of my own, but not on a plate so that it wouldn’t count, but apparently nobody explained that rule to the brownie because that sucker was DEADLY.

I knew it was a mistake immediately. I felt light-headed and sick, like I’d just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes, dipped in crack and rolled in the scat of llamas that have dined solely on poppies.  It occurred to me that I hadn’t really eaten anything except desserts all day. So when we got home I made myself a super healthy meal, but by then it was 8:00 and the damage was done. All I could do was wait for my stomach to revolt, which it did at about 10:00 (bye super healthy meal), and vow to treat myself better today.

Feeling the llama’s wrath. (image via mushypony.com)

This morning I woke up with a full on sugar hangover. I need a nap and a large German woman to knead my muscles and throw me in a sauna to detox. I have zero energy and no pithy thoughts.

The Whirlpool is broken. What you’ve got here is a bucket and a rock.

Toe Up

As those of you who have been reading this blog already know, I have a broken toe earned from a fun-filled date night at REI (see titillating details here).  A broken toe isn’t too bad, as far as injuries go. I broke one of the little toes and word has it that those are practically expendable. It’s more of an annoyance injury.

That being the case, I thought I’d make a list of the annoying inconveniences of having a broken toe, you know, just in case I’ve glamorized it and you are feeling compelled to run right out and get one for yourself. I even put my thoughts into bullet points in the event that I’m called upon to give a Power Point presentation on the subject in order to receive government grant money for my research.

It could happen.

The government has been known to spend money on things such as a study proving that strippers make more tips during ovulation and a study on the outcomes of concurrent and separate uses of malt liquor and marijuana. (They spent $389,357 on the latter. It didn’t cost me nearly that much to complete the same study in high school and not a drop of it came from the government. You’re welcome, tax payers!) I think our government is primed to look into the effects of broken toes on 40-something mothers.

So here is my carefully researched and thought-provoking presentation (lights, please!):

Effects of Fractured Metatarsals On Female Homo sapiens or A Girl’s Eye View Into Things That Suck About A Broken Toe

  • Taping is hard. It looks so easy in the Rocky movies, but it’s a skill set that I apparently don’t possess. This probably won’t surprise those who’ve read this post. My toes look better than my Christmas presents but I have to wrap my toes after the kids go to sleep as there is some cussing involved.
  • My toes are tired of being strapped together. They’re becoming claustrophobic and co-dependent. They need time apart to remember who they are as individuals.

Their desperation is palpable.

  • Tape attracts dirt and dirty tape does not look pretty in sandals. ‘Nuff said.
  • Walking through the living room barefoot after turning off the lights is SCARY and not because I’m afraid of clowns hiding under the couch. The kids like to rearrange the furniture and my toe feels so vulnerable in the dark, like a baby bunny.

"You wouldn't let that mean old chair leg hurt me, would you?" (image via dreamstime)

  • Tennis shoes don’t go with everything, despite what my mother told me. I suspect she was merely trying to get out of purchasing a second pair of super market shoes with that claim.
  • My impractical high-heeled shoes miss me. I think I heard my boots crying softly in the corner last night. And my platforms are clearly depressed.

They're starting a support group. Do you sense their loneliness?

  • You can’t walk sexily with a gimpy foot. I mean, if I had cause to walk sexily and could remember how, I’m pretty sure that it would hurt.
  • My Barre workout is extra challenging. It’s hard to pretend that I’m a prima ballerina when one foot won’t point. It’s ugly. Then I overcompensate with the other foot and end up with cramping toes. Also ugly. However, I think my taped toes led the teacher to assume that I was a dancer, which is cool.

Or maybe it was the fact that I came dressed like this (image via flickr and tibchris)

  • Bedtime comfort is compromised. Covers are deceptively heavy. Especially at the bottom of the bed where they are tucked in. If I don’t tuck the covers in, I wake halfway through the night with icicle toes and a bedspread turban. And I like to sleep on my back to prevent puffy eyes and face creases so that I don’t look like a disheveled alcoholic when I drop my daughter off for school. So I’m left sleeping with a ballerina turnout, which would be more comfortable if I were an actual ballerina.
  • Children aren’t gentle with their love. Mine think of Hubs and I as parental jungle gyms. This isn’t normally a problem because I’m pretty durable as far as mommies go. But lately I find that when they run toward me to give me a hug, I flinch and assume an awkward protective posture like I have a nervous disorder.

Ahem. So in closing, I believe the evidence I’ve amassed can only point to one conclusion: it is better for females, especially those of child-bearing years, to have unbroken toes rather than broken ones. Please send government checks to Fathead University, Department of Research c/o Kelly. Thank you.