When my chiropractor asked me this morning whether I was taking it easy on the working out, I didn't exactly lie when I assured him that I was. Past tense. I decided not to mention I would be playing a tennis match an hour after leaving his office.
I love visiting the chiropractor -- the sound of all the snaps and crackles and pops as he jerks my neck and spine in different directions. Today, the sound of my stomach growling added a little three part harmony; it was, after all, lunch time. But with two months of visits under my belt to the man with the magic fingers there's still one nasty little spot between my neck and my left shoulder that just won't stop hurting. I can move my neck in all directions now -- a very positive development -- but I think the sore spot is here to stay. So, wtf, why not play a little tennis?
I'm probably the only person who can think she's having a good time while having her ass kicked. I was totally outclassed by the young whipper snapper who beat the living crap out of me, but, after two months off the court, I was so happy to be swinging that damn racquet and smacking those fuzzy little balls the humiliation didn't faze me. Hmm. Yes, life can be beautiful and quite satisfying, even without batteries.
But what of the sore spot that just won't go away. I've carried many sore spots with me through the years, and the danger lies in allowing others -- or yourself -- pick away at the scabs. The more you pick, the less likely things will heal. Leave the sore alone, ignore it, and you're left with just a scar -- a harmless and slightly tender reminder of the initial hurt. Nothing that will impair your ability to move on.
As much as I would like to, I cannot blame having my clocks cleaned on the court today on any of my injuries -- not even my lingering sore spot. It was the usual suspects: inner psychological warfare, bad shot selection, a basic "can't do" attitude. (As a friend who was watching informed me, I didn't move my feet and I didn't hit my shots and I just didn't play my game. So what else is new?) And this time, I can at least share the credit for my loss with a much younger (thirty, tops) and more skilled opponent. I'll demand a rematch in twenty years when her hormones are bouncing around like fresh tennis balls.
The good news is I didn't do any further damage to my neck or my spine, didn't pick at any scabs. Not even the psychological ones (I'm so used to losing, I take it in stride). That nagging sore spot is still there, and I expect it will be for a while. A gentle reminder to tread carefully.
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