The floor is lava

Remember that game you used to play because you were either an only child (like me) or your mother was a worry wort who wouldn't let you go outside (also me)? I called it "The Floor is Lava," but whatever you called it, it involved the same thing -- trapezial (is that a word? it is now) leaps and bounds from coffee table to couch to doggy bed to the corner of an abstract piece of art that my mom always knew I would touch and probably knock over. More likely than not knock over. (And you couldn't touch the floor)

Well, today felt like one big game of "The Floor is Lava," but instead of a game it was a rite of passage so agonizing that if I were becoming a man, I'd be alpha male by now. I guess that's an exaggeration. You see, I'm not a trapeze swinger -- my childhood leaps and bounds were often half-hearted, tentative tip-toes from armrest to armrest. I got very little air, is what I'm saying.

I'm much more adventurous now than when I was little, mostly because I didn't know that there was so much I could do. Now that I do, I don't want to spend another moment wondering whether I should or shouldn't try something. I learned the Big Do's and Don't's of life (strangers, fires and bears should be avoided, take care of yourself, treat people with respect and kill the mean ones with kindness, don't let your possessions own you, etc) when I was little -- my parents did good.

But the problem with the evolution of my openness is that I frequently regret not being more active. I'm not going to win a marathon, that goes without saying, but my dismal state of sedentarism also means I can't climb Ruby Mountain on my 23rd birthday without numerous stops and intermittent wheezing either.

So, to bury the point of this post, two days ago I went for a jog. Don't worry, I stretched, BUT I didn't stretch nearly enough. When I woke up yesterday, my calf muscles were knotted so tightly that they felt as if someone had implanted stones in there -- boulders hellbent on making it uncomfortable for me to sit ANYWHERE.

I called my friend and running man, Patrick, to ask about stretches I could do to remove the bulbous lumps from the back of my legs. He directed me to a website and gave me hints about stretching properly this time. I failed.

This morning, my legs mutinied as if I had voluntarily decided to cut them off. The second I jumped out of bed I realized that I was not able to stand upright; my legs wobbled beneath me and I crashed on my bedroom floor. When I finally stood up again, I had to walk on my tip toes all the way to the stairs, down them and to the kitchen. Even then they didn't let up and haven't -- these semi-stretched legs are holding a grudge that I have yet to repent for.

It is painful to sit on them, it is painful to bend them, it is painful to straighten them, it is painful to walk flat on my feet. So now I look like a short drunk model walking on coals, stumbling around my house on the balls of my feet, feeling what I can only describe as the physical reaction to someone grating violin strings, wondering if crawling would make it easier.

Nope, definitely doesn't.

So, I'm sorry legs. I'm sorry that I've wronged you, abused you. Darn that terrible terrible floor and its terrible terrible lava qualities. Too bad I can't blink myself back into my semi-warm cocoon of a bed.

Wish this sad little coal walker a speedy recovery...and share some tips for reintroducing flexibility into my brittle, unyielding body.