The Perils of Exercise: A Cautionary Tale

Okay, so maybe exercise is more beneficial than perilous, but after my experience this weekend, my physical activity is going to be relegated to a resistance workout of walking upstairs to change into my fat pants, and then an upper body stretch of reaching into my cabinet to grab a snack. Oh wait, that is the only physical activity I get right now…. Anyways, many people now know about my little misadventure this weekend, but I thought that everyone could benefit from the lessons that I’ve taken away from this experience. Better to learn from someone else’s pain than feel it for yourself.

As I sit here typing, I stare at my left foot, which has swollen to twice its size, and I think about how things often happen in life for no good reason at all. Sometimes it’s just bad luck, chance, wrong place or wrong time. Either way, we can’t always pinpoint a reason for the bad things that happen to us. This instance however, is not one of those times. I know exactly whom to blame for the fact that I’m limping around with a brace on my ankle and crutches sitting in my car. That culpable individual is my very own roommate, Nikki. She already knows I blame her. You see, any time that I go out of town, there’s always some drama that occurs with Nikki back at home. Now, she’s left me in the lurch to suffer from my own drama, and if she had been here on that fateful night, (A.K.A. Friday, October 10th) I would still have full use of both of my legs. First lesson is: Nikki can never leave me. Ever.

Now, for the full story. So, there I was, grading papers (sadly enough that is my normal Friday routine) and enjoying my first viewing of “Baby Mama”. Since I had gotten paid earlier that day I had decided to treat myself to a deliciously artery-clogging meal of Raising Caine’s chicken fingers. (Which, in the words of Mike Meyers’ Scottish father in “So I Married an Axe Murderer” has “an addictive chemical in [the] chicken that makes you crave it fortnight.”) So, feeling particularly bloated and lazy, combined with the fact that the weather has FINALLY figured out that it’s fall and not summer anymore, I decided to go for a jog. What’s that, you say? Laura, who doesn’t believe in running, wanted to go for a jog? Yes, and this story will illustrate the exact reason why I don’t believe in running and why I never should have betrayed that sentiment in the first place. Lesson number two: don’t run, it’s bad for you.

So, I changed into my workout clothes, laced up my sneakers, and bounded out the door for a refreshing run in the cool, night air. Now, herein lies lesson number three: don’t ever betray Oprah. Jogging alone at night is one of the most moronic things that a girl can do, especially in Las Vegas. Practically every other “Cops” episode is filmed here for crying out loud. Jogging alone is an act that Oprah would wag her finger at and then send you reeling with stories of women who have fallen prey to prowlers while out by themselves. I however, chose to ignore the risks, including my chronically weak ankles, and set forth to burn some calories.

About three minutes into my run I was feeling pretty good about myself, and it is this feeling that usually precedes any humiliating situation. And just as Eminem was letting me know that I’ve only got one shot, I totally biffed it on the street. Now, I’m pretty sure that my first thought was “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” Followed by, “holy crap this hurts,” and then by, “I really hope no one saw that….” As I began limping back to the house, my injured pride in tow, I was reminded of a wounded animal in the wild who reeks of the stench of weakness and who is soon devoured. In other words, I saw just how vulnerable I was. That’s not to say that I live in a bad neighborhood, but evil is no respecter of persons or neighborhoods.

Upon making it home safely, I just about crapped a brick when I saw that my ankle had already swollen to the size of a baseball. I hobbled over to get some ice and then took a seat on the couch. It was there that I noticed that my knee was bleeding, but my first aid kit was upstairs and I wasn’t about to attempt to climb up and get it. So, I sat bleeding and ice-ing my ankle, fuming about the fact that I wouldn’t be able to clean my room or the bathroom the next morning like I had planned. Also, there was the slight possibility that my ankle could be fractured, and this would cause all sorts of inconveniences for me at work since I’m on my feet practically all day. Eventually, I made it upstairs, got cleaned off, and literally crawled into bed. Between the pain and worry though, it was near impossible to sleep. I woke at 7:30 the next morning (not by choice…) and eventually found my way to an urgent care center, care of Ashley since my internet wasn’t working and I couldn’t look up any phone numbers.

After waiting too long, they took me in to get an x-ray of my foot and I sat down on the table. Then, to add insult to injury (literally), the x-ray tech asked me which ankle it was. Which ankle?! The one that’s the frickin’ size of a blimp, lady! Are you calling my other ankle fat? I can’t walk in front of you! Anyways, long story made short, it’s not broken. However, it’s really difficult to put weight on it so I have an ankle brace and crutches. Now, here’s where Karma steps in to play her part. You know how there are those kids who think that crutches are cool, and they always want to try walking with someone else’s? Well, I wasn’t one of those kids. I’d always laugh at the poor sucker that had to use them and think how lucky I was that I could walk unaided. Now, my biceps and triceps are incredibly sore and I have bruises underneath my arms. Lesson number four: go ahead and laugh at people’s misfortunes, because eventually you’ll have your own and then you’ll be too disconcerted to laugh.

Well, that pretty much covers my weekend. I hope yours was a lot less educational. Stay tuned for what happens next, because I still have a couple weeks before Nikki returns. Until then, I’m not safe.