Pain

Pain

Sometimes I get little insights into how totally inactive I used to be - before my transformation from sloth to gym psycho. This afternoon at my massage course was one insight, as we learned how to work on legs in the style of a Thai masseuse. As I’ve mentioned here before, I used to have Thai massages on an insanely regular basis, and I’d be so relaxed they’d make me go to sleep. Today, I was forced to titter with pain (I can’t explain why this happens, but during agonising massages, laughing is what I have an urge to do) as my adductors and illiotibial band were thumb pressed by what felt like needles, but were actually our instructor’s hands.

I’d never felt that kind of pain back in the days of being a script editor, and I tried to work out how much exercise I would’ve done then. Walk from the tram, probably about fifty metres, carry a ream of paper upstairs to my printer when it needed restocking (once every week or so), walk to the canteen (or if we were stuck in meetings, we’d have our lunch brought in), stand in a pub drinking if I couldn’t get a seat. Hmm, no wonder my ITB didn’t feel any pain.

I may have bruises tomorrow, but it might just be my imagination.