I can't move. I mean it. I can't. fucking. move.
The new session at the place where I take aerial classes started this week. I didn't really dig silks so much in the last session and I want to switch back to trapeze which I loved, but I'm going to England in a month which means I'll miss two weeks of class, and more importantly I'll be sleeping with half the country so I'd like to show up with nice soft hands that don't look like I lost a battle with a rogue cheese grater. That's why I decided to put off trapeze until the next session and take something new this round. This is actually how I make decisions.
The class I settled on is called Beginning Stretching and Flexibility. It seemed like a really good idea, as presumably it would enhance my abilities in trapeze AND at the burlesque studio AND that whole part I just said about my intended behavior overseas. Which in the long run, I think it will. But that day is not today.
My teacher is a laid off electrical engineer and accomplished gymnast named Char, who has the magical ability to be incredibly tiny and built like a monster truck at the same time. She has also broken her back from gymnastics a double digit number of times, so while she is happy to demonstrate every other stretch, she calls on a volunteer to show us the correct positioning for bridges. She is awesome.
The class consisted of 30 minutes of dynamic stretching that involved a lot of kicking our way across the room and me constantly being told to straighten my knee, 30 minutes of static stretching that left me wondering if I just dreamed that part of my life where I could do full splits with ease, and 30 minutes of partner stretching, which I did with a girl from North Carolina who was so good at it and so positive in her reinforcement that I was "doing so great" and "almost done" that I suggested she could make a ton of dough being a labor and delivery coach. It was great and I left tired and sweaty and just knowing that I was already going to be a better dancer by Wednesday just from the one class.
I woke up the next morning slightly sore, which I was expecting. For some reason, standing in first position seemed to alleviate the pain in my hips, so I stood around like that most of the day at work and while washing dishes after dinner to the extreme amusement of the bartender. After dinner I worked a little bit on some choreography I was supposed to do over the weekend, feeling mostly fine, and then took what I felt was a well deserved break and sat on my couch to watch a couple hours of Shark Week. Then I got up to get a drink from the kitchen.
Everything was sore. EVERYTHING. I had no idea you could even have that level of pain in your hip flexors. I ate a fistful of aspirin while I laid there watching interviews with people who had been attacked by sharks and convincing myself that having my leg bitten off mid thigh didn't really sound so bad (also reminding my roommate that sharks have two penises, which is my favorite part about Shark Week - having an excuse to engage people in conversation about shark dicks).
This morning I woke up and it was 100 factors worse. I ate some more aspirin and grabbed the muscle rub, but short of bathing in it I didn't know how it could possibly help. Plus I couldn't bathe in anything because there was a centipede in the bathroom, but regardless. This is the level of pain I find myself in right now. I am sitting at my desk at work moaning. I get up every so often and walk around because moving is better than sitting still. Walking makes me look like a monumentally constipated duck. Standing up straight is not even an option at this point. Every time I want to adjust my legs under my desk, I am physically picking them up WITH MY HANDS because engaging any leg muscle makes me want to Aron Ralston all my limbs. My abs, which had been ok earlier, are now starting to ache because they are compensating for the fact that the only other muscles I can move in my body without screaming are the ones that control my face. Oh, and my dance class starts in two hours, so I have that going for me.
I'm not sure if it's rampant masochism or just endorphins from the pain, but I am kind of loving this. Except for when I try to move. Also when I try not to.