10-2-01, Side Streets, Kimra Traynor Herb, 941 words

IPS Features Here's the difference between being fit, and fitting into your jeans. Being fit means that if, say, you were called upon to run to the end of your street full tilt out (to.... I don't know..... save a kitten or something.....) you could do it without losing your breath and coughing up a lung. Fitting into your jeans means that those skinny jeans..... you know the ones- the size eight's - wayyyyyy back in the closet that you just refuse to throw away because SOMEDAY you might be that skinny again, slide right over the old hips with no problems whatsoever.     I was thinking that I was FIT because I have spent the last eight months dieting my butt off (literally) and hiking around the neighborhood with my hubby every evening. I guess I assumed that our power walk  of two miles and the fact that I am now where I should be on the old height/weight chart translated into some level of fitness on my part.

Boy was I mistaken.

I always have to learn these lessons the hard way, too, by nearly illing myself. Of course, if you had asked me, prior to Sunday night, if I thought I was a physically fit human being, I would have answered "YES!" (probably a bit too quickly, and way too smugly.) But I am humbled now....I have learned my lesson, and even though the old skinny jeans are fitting these days..... I am humbled to realize that I am  in no way fit.    It was a bunch of elementary school kiddies who hurt me. I direct the Children's Choir at our church and had spent the better part of Sunday afternoon studying my director's books and scouring for ideas to make the evening program that night extra fun. When I happed upon the section which incorporated vigorous dance moves into favorite children's songs, I knew I just had to do it. My choir, though angelic, are certainly no angels, and the boys, especially, often get a big fat case of the wiggles if required to sit still for too long. I'll just boogy their wiggles right out of their systems, I thought to myself, as I loaded up my gear and headed off to church.

Well, the kids loved it, anyway. One of the moms watching me said afterwards, "Wow, I am impressed! I would have never been able to do that squat/stand combination over and over again like you did." I just smiled, and did not mention that my legs felt like they were made out of Jello. When the children joined the Children's Director for crafts, I put my hands on my thighs to make them stop quivering. I had no luck. Little did I know, though, that the worst was still to come.    I woke the next morning with thighs on fire. My husband was poking me to wake up, and though I tried to sit up, my screaming aching muscles begged
to differ.

I can't move." I croaked, struggling against the pain.

What do you mean, you can't move?" He asked. "You mean you are too tired?"

“Ha." I said. "No, I mean, I LITERALLY CANNOT MOVE- IT HURTS TOO BAD!"

“ He stared at me a moment. "Well, what did you do to hurt yourself?"

I knew it sounded silly. I realized that the fact that my pain could only be attributed to the fact that I had squatted and jumped up over and over repeatedly to "Joy Joy Joy....down in my heart!" made me a really big wimp. Still, the fact was, I had been rendered immobile by a bunch of
dancing kids.

I told him what the problem was.    "You just need to work through it; get up and stretch those muscles;
you'll feel better in no time."

If, by "no time" he meant- oh, a week or so, then I guess he was right. But in the meantime, I was forced, by the red hot pain of my thigh muscles, to walk like a robot every where I went, and to avoid stairs whenever possible. The stairs, when I did have to descend them (for some reason the pain is much greater upon the descent) brought such levels of fire in my thighs- I prayed I would black out and slide down them unconscious.

You think I exaggerate? Ha. You should spend a moment inside of my thighs.

 Now I am in a pickle. I saw one of my choir members today, and she said,

I can't wait for choir this week! I had soooo much fun- the dancing was my favorite part!" To that, I could only smile, pat her head, and walk like a stiff legged robot across the hall. (The pain, you know.) The kids are now expecting that this level of activity will be maintained;  that each and every Sunday evening we will jump up, jump down, twist and turn and squat and bend until they are left as docile as little lambs, and I look like I am having a seizure. Which of course, I will be, if I even attempt one squat with my already severely damaged thighs. Perhaps I will be forced to lead a little less exuberantly..... faking the hard moves whenever possible.

That's just life, I guess. I am always tricking myself into believing I can do what I could at some previous point in my existence...... that I am fit, for instance, when I am merely fitting into my jeans. Now I know there is a BIG difference- and each aching robot step I make reminds me what that
difference is.

    -30-

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