Insanity Day 3: LEGS

I woke up yesterday morning and was delighted by the fact that I could still walk. Yes, my calves (specifically, something Google tells me is called the gastrocnemius, but I don't know how to pluralize that) felt like maybe my dog had slept on them all night - which is impossible, because she is the biggest pillow hog I've ever encountered. But still, I was able to take Joule for a walk, go up and down stairs, and even reach stuff on the high shelves! I'm short. Shut up.

So of COURSE I had to continue with Insanity! I got further this time, but not by much. I spent the time I should have used to continue killing myself in front of the TV with getting re-acquainted with the treadmill, so I did get a full 40-minutes in.

The rest of the day was magical. A surprise visit from the besties, a visit from a friend who was kind enough to take home some kale, a surprise phone call from a dear out-of-town friend, a successful first try at making vegan/sugar-free/IBS-friendly cookies, and getting all of my cooking for the week done. And eating kale. And watching the Olympics. Whew!

Then... this morning happened. It was time to feed Joule and let her outside, which is not something to be ignored. We get up at 5:30 AM on weekdays, so I suppose I should be grateful that she waits until 7 AM on weekends to make her needs known. As soon as I stood up to grab her food bowl, I felt it. 

The pain.

Holy cuss, you guys.

It felt like somebody took a baseball bat to my calves (gastrocnemii? gastrocnemiuses?) and worked out all their anger. I've invented a whole new way of walking. I did not take Joule for a walk. I do not like stairs. I can't reach anything. I did not pass go. I did not collect $200.

What DID I do? Insanity. The good news is I made it through the full 40 minutes. The bad news is I was pretty much going at half the pace. Apparently I should never sacrifice form for speed, so I made sure my form was perfect. At one-fourth the speed. Maybe one-eighth. It's hard to tell when you're sweating that much from doing slo-mo squats.

My boyfriend spent most of the afternoon giving me a gastrocnemius massage (which is neither sexy nor exciting, so calm down) and lecturing me on the importance of giving myself recovery days. I'll probably ignore him and end up whining even more tomorrow. To his great credit, he watched me hobble around without making fun of me once, and volunteered to carry me out to the car when we went out for dinner (I declined. I have pride. I also couldn't think of a way for him to carry me without touching my legs).

Goals for the week: eat smarter, figure out how to insert a daily workout into my weekday schedule, and start setting aside money for compression socks.