I have a confession to make. I made it to Day 21 of my Month of Yoga before injuring myself. Twice.
Injury #1 was a painful reminder that I’m not so young anymore. I woke up on a Monday morning, limping due to some serious discomfort (read: pain) in my right hip. It was popping, grinding in the socket. Hmm. That’s not normal.
As much as I wanted to push through the pain I knew better than to exacerbate whatever damage had already been done. So I took the week off.
Right when it was time to hit the mat again my 2nd injury put an end to that idea.
Oh, yes. The injury that proves how stupid, out of shape and overweight I must actually be. While climbing a fence (don’t ask) I totally killed my right hand. My writing hand. My eating hand. My everything except wiping my ass hand.
I did not fall off the fence. Nope. I was like mother fucking Spider Man. In control and super-stealthy. I felt no pain at the time. Had no clue I injured myself until the next morning, when I awoke to a throbbing, swollen, purple hand. It was bad enough to warrant a trip to the ER. X-rays showed no sign of a break and a “Hand Contusion” was the official diagnosis. Yes, you bastards, I went to the ER for a bruise.
It was nasty enough that they gave me Darvocet, which I took until I realized the medicine was pushing me into a horribly depressed state. Fucking awesome. 48 hours later and I’m still clawing my way out of that hole.
Layne Staley has been bugging me through this whole experience, singing non-stop in my head. If he wasn’t already dead I’d kill him.
“I’d like to fly but my wings have been so denied.”