It's been a month since I have been to my kickboxing class. It could not be helped. We were at Camp Ramah, then with my parents and aunt and uncle in New Jersey. We returned last week to a night at Shakespeare in the Park (excellent!), the long weekend, and meetings. I tried desperately to get there on Friday, but was busy with last minute details for Slichot, and it was not meant to be. So today, I finally went back.
I did not use my time away as an opportunity to eat bonbons and watch tv. At Camp Ramah we were schlepping, lifting, bending, climbing, and generally working very hard, plus we walked the track, and everywhere we wanted to go. Visiting parents we still walked a lot, and tried to keep active. Still, I should have kept up with my crunches and maybe practice some kicks, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and I moved quickly down it.
Tonight I returned to the class. It started out well. I was a bit stiff, but naturally limber, it wasn't too bad. Class started off well. I felt good, and pushed myself hard. While I missed a month, the class kept progressing. About 4/5 through my left rotator began to hurt. My legs felt like I was wading through jello. My feet stung when I did a sidekick. My left knee, which I strained in December, but thought was better, ached.
This is how I know I am old now. I pulled something in my rotator 4 years ago. I took two full years to get to pain free, and that's still not totally free. When I push myself the pain reappears.
There were a few times I wanted to curse Sensei Gabriel, but my mind quickly countered that I didn't really hate Sensei Gabriel. I hated myself for not keeping up with what I could.
When I came home, I quickly showered; grabbed two aspirin, then dressed to go pick up Jesse. Aching slightly, I pulled on a pair of jeans that haven't fit me in two years. Not only do they fit, they fit comfortably. Ow, ow, ow, ow, wow.
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