My Body Hates Me

Today, this post is not about what I hate, but instead what hates me. And that would be...my body. As referenced before I am not the most graceful or coordinated, and I consider it a good day when I can walk down the sidewalk without seriously injuring my person. That being said it isn't really always my body's fault when bad things happen to it.

Probably one of my worst decisions regarding my bodily health is that of playing rugby. For those who don't know, rugby is probably one of the most (of not THE most) physically damaging sports available for an athlete. It's full contact tackling without any protective gear.
Why would I choose to play such a sport? If you're asking this you join the chorus of friends and family who either recoiled or looked absoluted flabbergasted by this decision. Perhaps it was because I was a foolish undergraduate or because I wanted to participated in a sport that was anti-establishment. I don't know. I do know that I enjoyed every minute of getting my ass kicked, but my poor body didn't. My family didn't enjoy it either, especially my mother. Imagine giving birth and raising a daughter whom you love more than anything...then driving all over the state of Ohio to see her slammed into a field. I think during one very violent game I may have heard my aunt cry out over the melee "Oh dear Jesus have mercy on number 4!" To be fair I'm not exactly what you would call "frail", but I think they still see me as a four-year-old playing tea party.

An edited list of my rugby injuries:
1) I was kicked in the mouth during a wayward tackle and I bit through the side of my tongue while wearing a mouthguard. Oooh delightful.
2) I had my chest (read: upper lady parts) cleated by a particularly robust opponent.
3) During a rainy, very very muddy game (my favorite!) I face-planted into a massive mud puddle.
4) My elbow was hyperextended at the end of the fall season my junior year and resulted in the most amazing bruise I've ever seen (my arm looked like a blue tye dyed shirt). I also had to go to physical therapy to restore a full range of motion to my arm.
5) Various concussions which have finally rendered me incapable of playing contact sports again (to my utter, utter dismay...but probably for the best). In retrospect it was fun being referred to as "concussed" by my teammates.

Anyhow, the physical abuse continued that summer after my junior year, annoyingly right before I was supposed to visit France. I'll be clear, nothing short of a full body cast would have kept me from going on that trip, but really how entertaining would it have been to take pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower completely covered in plaster. But continuing on.
I was working at a plant nursery and stupidly (most of my actions start out with "stupidly") I thought I could pick up a tree. No...I didn't try yank a planted Oak out of the ground...but I did try to pick up a rather large sapling. According to the chiropractor this (suprise of all surprises) strained my back msucles , which in turn would not hold my hip in place properly resulting in one of my legs ending up a half an inch shorter than the other. I think I went to the chiropractor 6 times in an attempt to keep my hip in place before jetting to a place where cheese is a daily dietary staple (ah..heaven). But as soon as I boarded the plane my bastard hip decided it wanted a vacation too and left it's proper place in my body. Needless to say that trip was memorable for more than seeing where Quasimodo lived.

In another sick twist of fate, I again injured myself before going on another Euro-trip two summers ago: this time to the Land of Many Beers. A week before I was to depart for Deutschland (where I prayed that barley and hops flowed from waterfalls) I was partaking in some tasteful dancing at a nice little gay establishment. I somehow found myself on stage (gasp!) fully enjoying the dance beats with some of my favorite gents when I fell. Off the platform. Onto only one foot. After dragging a severely drunken friend home I thought maybe my foot just "stung" a little. But oh no. After 3 weeks of walking on cobblestone streets in Bier Country I was reduced to a hobbling mess.

"Oh Jesus of Nazareth enough with the bodily harm" you may say. Ohhh no. One of more story from the anthology. Recently (as described before), I have been, to put it mildly, bored. So I have been helping my aunt move. She is in her mid-60s and needed a lot of assistance moving a lifetime's worth of shit. Not only did this exercise help me to see the beauty in living without lots of earthly possessions, it also left me with the same problem as my Parisian "mal de dos" a few paragraphs back. Why didn't I learn that if lifting a tree would screw up my back, possibly hulking an entire box of Elvis Pressley records would be a bad idea? Who knows. But my back currently hurts. A lot. Bless my aunt, or as I like to call her "my dealer", she has been giving me some of her muscle relaxers to help out. But I suppose none of that is really going to help considering that the other morning while home alone I ran out of the bathroom completely nude and dripping wet to get a towel (I'm really sorry if that's too much of a visual but it's important to the story). I (surprise surprise) slipped on the ceramic tile in the kitchen and landed on my ass. If this weren't bad enough, because I was so wet I slid across part of the kitchen on my back picking up dirt, crumbs, and dog food along the way. Yeah. It's truly pathetic but true.

I hope this post doesn't leave anyone thinking that maybe I should be fitted for a straight jacket anytime soon. I'm working on my decision-making skills and hoping that one day my body won't retaliate on me and become severely allergic to alcohol. Although I probably deserve it.