the smell of my desperation has become a stench

This was the noise you heard last night

In all the reading I’ve done about IT band syndrome, the one therapy that keeps coming up is the foam roller. More technically, it is “a self-myofascial release technique to improve soft tissue extensibility.” I just got hot and bothered typing that.

Self-myofascial? Yes, please.

I bought this monster when I was training for the marathon:

I call it a monster because it has no mercy whatsoever. Most foam rollers are foamy. I mean, it is in the name (the multivitamins are working you guys, I AM SO ON IT). They squish and give a little as you place it underneath your leg and roll back and forth on a particular muscle, your body weight forcing that muscle against the roller and causing it to relax. That sounds so simple and easy, as if you’re just lying there sipping a martini and scratching your balls and reading Twilight.

But for those of you familiar with this therapy you know it’s so incredibly painful, excruciating even, especially when your roller isn’t foamy (see monster above). The sounds that come out of your face when you’re forcing a tight muscle against that surface, dear lord. Not safe for work or small children or mature audiences.

Compared to the moan that travels up from a tight muscle into my throat and erupts into incoherent profanity, a pig being gutted alive would sound like a lullaby.

Yesterday I attempted a spin class — yes, I know I’m not supposed to and I’m defying my doctor’s orders and you go right ahead and tell on me, INSERT A FACE WITH A TONGUE STICKING OUT — and it was the magnificent mistake he told me it would be. I made it 34 minutes on that bike, and then my right knee gave out. NOTE: My right knee is not the injured knee. In fact, the left knee, the actual injured knee doesn’t hurt anymore. Excuse me while I girl out on your for a second: OH EM JEE. SHUT UP. Like, this can’t be happening. Pass the chips.

So I got on that roller last night, placed it underneath my right thigh, and prayed that I wouldn’t die. (I just typed “praid.” I take it back. Those multivitamins are shit.) And the pain, whoa. So unbearable, and I cannot take responsibility for the words I said in front of my children. Leta just stared at me from across the room and said, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” And I was like, oh, you know. Taking a pottery class.

Marlo on the other hand ran over immediately, climbed onto the side of my body and shouted, “Go for a ride!” Is that cute, or what? I can say that now with a little bit of distance and perspective because right then my instinct was to buck her off of me. Instinct/actual thing I did. I only threw her a few feet in the air. Her lip is okay today.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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