I've slowly, but surely, been losing some weight. And people, please, we're talking a pound to half-pound at a time every couple weeks, on a possibly faulty scale, but still. The needle was significantly farther to the left this morning when I stepped on the scale and finally opened my clenched eyes to survey the damage.
Whoa. That is not what I weighed last time I checked.
Now, any normal, rational person would think, "Yes! I'm losing weight and have done absolutely not a damn thing to do it!" But, hi, I am not rational.
I haven't ran in weeks. I haven't been involved in any sort of physical activity of any kind. You know what's happening? I am losing muscle. I am losing any ounce of tone my (could-use-much-more-toning) body once had. By the time this injury has subsided, I will have the weakened, toneless body of a 14-year-old. With slightly larger boobs. But only slightly.
So I gained 10 pounds while training for the marathon last summer, and I pouted and whined and caused general melee. "It's muscle, shut up," everyone told me. Sure, whatever. I'm a cow, I convinced myself. And now that I've gone stagnant, and I'm beginning to lose that 10 pounds, DAMMIT. IT WAS MUSCLE. And I'm LOSING it. And, SHIT. And, I HATE YOU, WORLD.
(Side note: I was just perusing my dictionary to look up the correct spelling of a word, and I opened up, on first contact, page 673. Which contains the word "shinsplints." Crap.)
Tomorrow I'm going to the doctor to remedy other, varied problems inflicting my apparent dilapidated body, and I will insist upon a bone scan, finally, to determine exactly what is wrong with my legs. And I will heal them. And I will run again. And I will, by God, gain those 10 pounds back, and when I do, boy, do you know what I'm going to do?
That's right. I'm going t0 bitch and moan because, shoot, I gained 10 pounds.
Sigh. There is no happy-medium.