Tennis Elbow Not a Trivial Injury

Here's a nugget of wisdom I'd like to share with you: if it's been a while since you've been to the gym, don't jump into your old routine right away. You're out of shape. You'll hurt yourself. I know what I'm talking about.

Last summer, I moved into a high-maintenance condo-house which came with a lot of drama. I also met a new boyfriend, Clyde. Those two things kept me pretty busy.

So I temporarily stopped going to the gym. For about six months.

Meanwhile, Clyde and I discovered some common interests, including a fondness for premium ice cream.

As a result, I put on weight.

By New Years, I was decidedly fat. It was time to put some limits on the ice cream and start exercising again.

My first day back at the gym, I worked out on the elliptical and did some spinning. It felt great to be getting back in shape. After the cardio stuff, as was my habit in the past, I approached a weight lifting machine with gleeful abandon. I did ten, then twenty repetitions with just the right amount of sweat. I moved on to another machine. I was such a bad ass.

The next day, I couldn't move my arm.  A sharp pain near my funny bone constricted every movement. It felt as if I'd banged my elbow really hard on the counter.  I figured it would go away after a few days. Clyde, something of an expert in medical matters, speculated that I may have torn a tendon or cracked a bone. I berated myself for working out without properly warming up.

Long story short (too late, I know), after a couple months of pain and a visit to my doctor, an orthopedic surgeon diagnosed the injury as "tennis elbow."

No, I don't play tennis.

Tennis elbow sounds so trivial, like a medical condition only the rich have the luxury of suffering. But I'm telling you, it hurts like crazy. I can't lift heavy things. I have to use my other arm for raising the garage door. It's painful to shake hands.

Tennis elbow is caused by non-inflammatory, chronic activity in the tendon around the elbow.  There is no cure. Only time heals tennis elbow. Like a year. It can be treated with a brace strap thing. Many nights I take an ice pack to bed.

I'm not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I'm just trying to raise awareness of the condition. Perhaps I could do a public service announcement or have some fundraisers featuring celebrities. Some sort of marathon, or perhaps a tennis match, is certainly in order. What color do you suppose the ribbon should be? What about a slogan? "Bend for the cure," comes to mind. Or, "T.E:  it's not just for tennis anymore."

In any case, I'll bare my suffering with that quiet dignity for which I am so well known. I think some ice cream would make me feel better.

Lighter and Tighter – The Continuing Saga of a Middle Aged Man’s Quest for Physical Fitness

Why did I wait until so late in life to get into shape? Until recently, I never lifted a weight or performed a curl. The last big rubber ball upon which I balanced tenuously was a bouncing Romper Room toy with a rubber strap.

My new personal trainer, Rick, asked me at our first session what sports I played in high school. "Um," I stammered. "Piano?"

Rick has to teach me everything, I mean everything, from scratch. I don't know a crunch from a hole in the ground. When he says, "chin-ups," I break into a cold sweat - PTSD from high school when without any instruction or direction, we were told to do chin-ups, the number of which would determine our grade. I never did one. Not one. Looking back at "physical education" in school, I remember a lot of physical, but not much education. 30-some years later, in my advanced middle age, I am finally learning from Rick about correct posture, how my body works, and what is connected to what.

Rick is demanding, but also shouts encouragement and praise.

He is always yelling things like, "elbows in," or "shoulders back;" but most of all, it's "work your core."

The idea is - well, I'm not sure what the idea is, but I trust there's a good reason for it.

I've become very mindful of my core. Yesterday I had a little allergy attack. As I sneezed, I told myself to "sneeze from the core." When I empty the dishwasher, I concentrate on "lifting and reaching from the core." As I throw the trash bag over the edge of the dumpster, I'm "activating my core." I also think about my core during other, more personal activities.

Something must be working because I'm seeing results. My posture is better. I feel "tighter" around the middle. I've discovered muscles in my back. Today I felt a big muscle in my leg I've never felt before. For the first time in years, I can feel the bones in my butt when I sit down.

With the intense combination of working out and rigorous adherence to Weight Watchers (trademark R), I've lost 30 pounds since mid-July. Yea for me!

There are downsides to my healthy regimen. Getting up at 4:30 a.m. for personal training makes me tired and cranky. When I fainted on Rick one morning, he lectured me about the importance of eating before working out, necessitating the need to get up even earlier.

It is true that Weight Watchers is not a diet as much as a lifestyle. I can eat anything I want as long as I count it in my daily food budget. But realistically, there are some things I just don't eat. If having a brownie means I get less at dinner, I'll usually skip it. I crave chocolate chip cookies but limit myself to two every other week. I haven't ordered Papa John's pizza since I don't know when. DQ blizzards are few and far between.

I can't even be in the same room as potato chips. One serving is about 15 chips. Please! That's just a handful. If I open a bag, all contents are devoured instantly. At a party recently, a large buffet was spread across a counter, prominently featuring several open bags. In a cold sweat, I had the impulse to call my sponsor - something I could do if I was in Overeaters Anonymous, which I'm not. So I left the party, went to King Soopers, purchased some low fat popcorn, and returned to the party.

Hey, anyone who knows me knows I can't do this without drama.

The biggest challenge of getting in shape is staying that way. I hope to not be one of these people that loses the same 50 pounds over and over.

Can I keep it up (or down as the case may be)? The suspense is building: Will I buy another ten sessions with Rick or start working out on my own? How long can I avoid a hot fudge brownie sundae at Dairy Queen? Will I give in to one of those nacho Tuesdays at the office cafeteria? Will I ever again have the taco platter at Little Anita's (it's about two days worth of Weight Watchers points)? Can those low-cal ice cream bars really be any substitute for a “gotta have it” at Cold Stone Creamery? How will I cope with the coming holidays - all the cookies and the frosting and my sister's mashed potatoes with sour cream?

Stay tuned for updates.

At the moment, however, I’m going to go lie down. I’m feeling a little faint.



For some previous entries about my “getting into shape” saga, click on the links below.

Yoga for the Round and Stiff

Fitness Newbie Surrounded by Experts

Least Likely Passtime

Yoga a Stretch for the Round and Stiff

I have been participating in a yoga class.

Take a moment to let that sink in.

If you've known me for a while, you know that I am not the yoga type. I make fun of anything where someone might say, “Ohmmm.” Until last September, I wasn't the working out at a gym type either, but people can change.

Yoga is great exercise. It’s non-aerobic, so it's easy on the old knees.

Did you know there were a lot of different kinds of yoga? Some types are more mystical, others more physical. There is hot yoga. Bikram yoga. Ashtanga yoga. Power yoga. Tantric yoga. Naked yoga. I'm just in Beginning Yoga.

After the first class, I felt quite righteous about my healthy new lifestyle choice - until the sore stomach muscles kicked in. Who would have thought that sitting and lying on the floor, extending legs and arms, and twisting could lead to such pain? My body, I have learned, is not very flexible.

I’m also ignorant when it comes to muscle composition. When told to stretch our quads, I have to look at the person next to me. I don't know what a quad is.

The instructor is very nice and patiently bends my arms, waist, and ankles this way and that to conform to the pose of the moment, but I'm stiff and my body's not the ideal shape for yoga. I'm not long and thin. I'm round.

But I'm plugging away and I hope to be more bendy real soon.

Namaste.

That Bicycle Isn't Going to Ride Itself

In my living room, a cushy sofa folds out into a bed for company. A large pillow sits atop the wooden entertainment center, a throne for kitten Charles. Knick-knacks are few. Remotes on the coffee table are plentiful. And beneath a colorful painting of Ghost Ranch, New Mexico, a mountain bike leans against the wall.

The 10-speed Kona Lanai symbolizes the active Colorado lifestyle. One might assume I spend weekends on high-country trails, pedaling up steep inclines without regard to the mud on my stylish form fitting polyester outfit.

Perhaps after the ride, I climb a fourteener (a mountain over 14,000 feet) before settling down to a healthy dinner of brown rice, tofu, and fresh vegetables for which I jogged over to the farmer's market early that morning.

It's not for nothing that Colorado boasts the slimmest of state populations. People here are acutely active. I have an elderly neighbor that hikes up mountains several times weekly and then walks her dog to the park – not the park across the street, but the bigger one several neighborhoods away.

In contrast, my helmet hangs from the handlebars enveloped in dust. The tires sag slightly. I'm not sure I even have the key to the lock.

I parked the bike after an old lady roared out of the Baptist church parking lot and nearly killed me as I bounced over the curb to avoid a face to face encounter with the grill of her Buick. She never did see me, nor did she hear my very un-Baptist verbalizing as I picked myself up and brushed the rocks off.

I started walking instead – good exercise, but not "EXTREME" in the Colorado tradition. I trudge through the neighborhood, appreciating flowerbeds and trees and trying to peak inside houses while crickets and birds cheer me on; less hurried, more to see.

Perhaps I'll sell the bike. It isn't going ride itself, and I really have no interest.

A couple of my friends are preparing for a triathlon. They both look terrific and very, well, EXTREME. Many Saturdays after they complete their jogging, biking, and swimming, I peal myself off the sofa and join them for a serious, carbo-loading breakfast. It's my way of showing support for their regimen.

Does anyone want a used mountain bike?