I’m just going to come right out and say it: swimming is bullshit. Last week my trainer scheduled me to swim a total of over 5800 meters. What the hell. Three days of swimming, three days of stinky chlorine, three days of getting out of the pool and having perma-freezing fingers for the rest of the night. I’m sure Teresa the Dolphin is immune to all of these maladies, but I’m not because I suck at swimming and I feel like my progress is excruciatingly slow.
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Or, as Sir Mix-a-lot would say, “My chir-o-prac-tor don’t want none unless he cracks bones, hon!” And to Nathan, my Magnolia Seattle chiropractor, I’m probably the Mack Daddy or Swass of patients. (I’ll devote a later post, tentatively titled “An Ode to My Chiropractor,” to my good sport of a chiro.) You see, I visit a chiropractor and a physical therapist for various maladies, and both of them have pretty harsh things to say about my neck and back. In their words, working on my back is like “pressing down on concrete.” While a healthy back, muscles and joints should have a bit of spongy give to them, my back is as hard as Sharon Stone’s face in Catwoman (I apologize for the terrible movie reference). Both the chiro and the PT recommended I get massage therapy at least once a month to help loosen my tight muscles.
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I don’t know what it is about my running speed, but I’m either too slow or too fast to run with a buddy or in a group. It’s like I give off some sort of anti-social pheromone (it’s probably sweat, which I do a lot) whereby people catch a whiff of it and are motivated to run a couple hundred yards ahead of me.
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