However, once in a while I choose to do something that goes against tenets of the PACT.
|Because my very excellent friend, E.S., needed a pink feather boa..and a proper send-off into wedded bliss|
Invariably these adventures' first strike is that they keep me up past *gasp* 9 pm, the triathlete midnight. Second strike: I wake up with training on my schedule, but my body feels like it already has completed this training.
And when it comes to the posterior half of my lower legs, the feeling is best described how one of my athletes once did: like dry-rotted rubber bands.
You know when you find a stack of something held together by an ancient rubber band, which has lost all elasticity and snaps immediately upon trying to disengage it from the items it encircles. Like that. Vivid, huh?
This post isn't meant to provide the silver therapeutic bullet to prevent or reverse this dry-rotting, although if people want me to, just say so in the comments and I will. Instead, this post simply proves that sometimes my (our) human fallibility and Achilles heels, literally, trump any amount of athletic training or preventive methods I (we) can undertake.
And that includes committing the extreme fashion faux-pas of wearing compression socks, albeit under jeans, and clogs on the dance floor.
[my high-heel collections shakes its collective head in shame and disowns me on the spot]