At the beginning of this year, I was unbelievably proud of myself. I had failed at a lot of my resolutions for the year before, mainly because they were the goals of years previous and not anything I had genuinely wanted to do in a while. So at the tail end of 2018, I outlined a list of resolutions to work on for the new year, focusing solely on the things I knew I desperately wanted to do.
As I said, I was proud. I have this really, really high standard for myself, and the fact that I took the time to question, “hey, is this actually what I want to spend my year worrying over?” was incredible for me.
And so far, I’ve been doing pretty well.
While there is a list of personal goals no one, save myself, need know about, the main ones I have been focusing on are workout, health, and literary related. I work out three times a week. I drink at least one hydroflask a day. I read and write more (I know it’s not specific but I’m trying). Everything has been going according to plan.
Now February is here, and my body hates me.
Before I go into detail, let me take you on a walk down memory lane.
The year is 2013. I’m in eight grade with a pixie cut that is now on the verge of what will eventually be referred to as “mullet with a Nicolas Cage pony tail,” a practically non-existent filter, and two braces on my knees, as well as a set on my teeth.
What I found out then was that I have this wonderful condition I typically refer to as Perry-Patella Pain Syndrome. It’s actually called Patella-Femoral Pain Syndrome, and if you think I love to dance (which I do), my knee caps love to do it even more. In understandable terms, my knee caps like to rub away at the cartilage that holds them in place. Boy, does that feel wonderful.
There is a grace period of no pain where I am fit and healthy and constantly on my feet, but also getting enough rest as to not overwork my body. I was there in high school with three different styles of dance, competitions every other weekend, and extra runs at night simply because “I liked it” (wow, what happened to me). The not-so-gracious periods happen when I get back into working out, or when I fall out of it. I’ve gone through hours of physical therapy and doctors sessions (thanks to my caring and wonderful parents willing to pay exorbitant amounts of money for me) just to get me knees in check.
Listen, it wouldn’t be so bad if not for how the rest of my body reacts to my knees trying to secede from the union. I also have piriformis problems (it’s a muscle in your butt. mine likes to move), and metatarsal slip ups (literally, they like to slip). You could say, my body never stops moving, even when it does.
AS I WAS SAYING, I have been going to the gym regularly and actually trying to take care of the only body I have, hoping I can restore it to the glory days of high school. Those dreams will come true, I can promise you that.
But, for now, I sit at my desk at work, doing whatever knee exercises I can remember from when I was thirteen, typing away (after freaking out because “YES, IN FACT, TODAY IS WEDNESDAY”), praying out of my *shifting* butt muscle that the swelling goes down.
Pray for me.