is a single mama in the city, super-savvy editor, writer, video host and shameless shoe whore.
And all along I just thought it meant I didn't feel like dusting: The diagnosis
Tuesday, March 9, 2010 I've let the post about my triumph on the treadmill sit on the throne of Sassafrass for a few days so the idea that I ran five whole miles would sink in and you could just roll around in the fact that I am kicking ass.
But really, those are not the facts. Yes, I did run five miles -- powerfully, amazingly, perhaps even enthusiastically. The truth is, however, I was not kicking ass.
There was absolutely no kicking of ass.
In fact, the only thing my ass was doing was floundering like dead, limp rabbit. OK, maybe not a completely dead small animal (and definitely not furry like a rabbit). Maybe more like a half-dead small (alright, not so small, but firm...fiercely firm) animal.How is this possible?
That's what I asked the sports doctor I finally conceded to seeing after pain in my calves and hip turned that triumph on the treadmill into too many minutes of tight, throbby muscles and frustration. Five miles slipped down to two-and-a-half, then two, and finally, a mere mile-and-a-half.
Before he answered, we spent the first half of my appointment talking about graduating only a year apart from the same high school (are people our age even old enough to be doctors yet?) and all the people we know in common (because that's how Chicagoans do).
Sure, he was weighing me and charting my medical history while I was wearing some funky scrubs shorts things under my dress, but it went something like:
YOU GREW UP THERE? WHAT DO YOU KNOW? I GREW UP TWO BLOCKS FROM THERE?
HOLY OH HELL! DID YOU GO TO THAT GRAMMAR SCHOOL?
I DID? DID YOU KNOW JOHN ELLIOTT?
JOHN ELLIOTT! WITH THE BROTHER WITH THE CRAZY EYE? HELL. YES. MAD CRUSH FOR LIKE ALLLLL OF FOURTH GRADE. WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM? HE MOVED TO WISCONSIN.
HA! CRAZY EYE. THAT'S HIM. YEP, WISCONSIN. NO ONE AT MY REUNION KNEW WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM EITHER. WHAT ABOUT THOSE BROTHERS ON THE OTHER BLOCK WHO SET THEIR OWN HOUSE ON FIRE?
DAMN! I DIDN'T KNOW THEM.
DAMN.
And then we proceeded with movement tests and adjustments and silver tape connected to cords that ratcheted up the blood flow to my tingling muscles. He let me get back into my leggings and boots and he came back with the diagnosis.
There was a model of bones and muscles and much discussion, using medical terms and whatnot. My calf? Basically, over-trained and require some attention to my arches (we shall not speak of the shoe recommendations made here ever again) and running shoes.
My hips? Another story. They are inflamed, irritated and full of scar tissue from doing way more than their share to propel me forward when I run, to compensate.
For what? What in the world would over-achiever hips be compensating for?
Apparently, according to nice high school sports doc, lazy glutes.
YES, you read right. Lazy glutes. For those of you may be confused, that's fancy medical talk for the muscles in my backside not firing properly when I run, causing my hips to jump in and pull my lower half forward (so that part's not a shock for Patient Sassafrass).
"Wait," I said in a much more serious tone than I had when contemplating aloud whether John Elliott was imprisoned shortly after his departure to Wisconsin in fifth grade. "Are you telling me -- ME! JESSICA ASHLEY! -- that I am diagnosed as LAZY ASS?"
He smiled courteously, laughed courteously and then said seriously, "Yes. Lazy ass."
And after all the work I have done all the years, stretched out on college dorm loft beds and on too many way-too-sticky dance floors both here and abroad and just walking the runway that is any El platform in Chicago, my ass is lazy?
I was baffled. So I did what every woman with a problem with slack-assery does: I called my brother.
My brother wasn't confused at all. He wasn't even fazed.
"Dude," Yes, that's me in the dress and pink boots he was addressing. "Of course, your ASS IS LAZY. Look at it. Go on! Get up! I don't even have to tell you. I know you already are. I KNOW you are staring at your LAZY ASS in the mirror right now. See it? It is SO BIG, it's never had to do a day of work in its whole damn life. Your ass doesn't even KNOW what work is. All the work has been done by DNA. It just has to sit there like, 'WHAAAAT?'"
You know what? I think he's right. I think he's on to something with this whole theory about people, men, admirers, random tourists, small woodland creatures gathering around just to see the spoiled child-king that is my tush. And my ass has only had to wiggle a bit to work that magic, never learning the true meaning or importance of...ohhh, I don't know...participating in the kinesiological process of pushing my legs forward.
Go ahead, say it. I have to accept the truth, no matter how difficult:
My bum is a bum. My derrière is dallying. My posterior is passive. My seat is slothful. My fanny is flagging. My tush is trifling. I can't even turn the other cheek. Dammit.
The only treatment for LAZY ASS is breaking up the scar tissue, doing lots of strength exercises and stretching, and bribing my booty with extra allowance and a Happy Meal if it would (FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND THE 800TH TIME I'VE ASKED) just make mama's hips happy again.
What can you do to support me in this time of gluteal identity crisis? Thank you for asking. Prayers would be kind. Also, any warm, positive wishes you want to send to my comatose cakes are welcome. Casseroles are always accepted. I just ask that you please refrain from sending cards, letters, packages, balloon-grams or cookie bouquets because...well, you know.
There's just no way my ass is going to make it all the way down the steps to the front door to pick them up.
Reader Comments (7)