Call a medic, I've woken but I can't get up

I almost had to call an ambulance when I woke up this morning. Okay, I exaggerate ... slightly. I do that sometimes. 

Have you ever been so sore that you actually had to strategically plan how to get out of bed?  You know, that minute when you wake up and your body screams in an ever so passive aggressive way, "Please just don't move. I'm begging you.  I have money; I will pay you to just stay still until whatever this is passes."

Yeah, this morning that was me.

Every muscle took on a very vocal stance on movement of any kind. My legs were so done they started throwing my arms under the bus. 

"Use them if you have to get up.  They don't know pain like we do. They basically do nothing. What exactly is their job, anyway? Waving and washing your hair? Please. We have been hauling your fat behind all over this planet for years while they just swing uselessly at your side all willy-nilly.  It's time they took on some real responsibility."

My arms were like, "Easy for them to say, but we weren't built for this kind of nonsense. You have basically ignored us your whole life and now out of the blue you decide to start using our muscles which have basically been dormant since the womb. How are we supposed to cope with the responsibility of real movement? It's absurd."

My stomach muscles which I always thought got a pretty good work out digesting all the delicious food I gave them were emitting the kind of sharp shooting pains which I can only liken to the early onset of acute appendicitis.  

So I arose in stages.  Calculated, controlled, tearful, ouch-filled stages.  I may or may not have used several expletives by the time my core muscles had finally managed to move me into a seated position. 

At this point I had begun planning my own funeral. Should I write an eulogy or leave that up to a loved one?  What music should be played?  Do I even have a favourite song that could be played in a church setting?  Cremation or burial?  Now my head was starting to hurt, and that was the one thing that had somehow managed to survive the recent terrorist activity that my body was waging on me.  

Even with all these unanswerable questions, it seemed like dying still might be easier than figuring out how I was going to put my underwear on. However, I am a lot of things, but I'm not a quitter.  Well okay, sometimes I am a giver upper, but that is totally different from a full on quitter.  So I struggled, and I groaned, and finally, I managed to get myself moving in the general direction of living my life.  

A good friend of mine once said to me, “Pain is just weakness leaving the body.” I would like to say that Pain had better move out quick, leave no forwarding address and not expect to get its damage deposit back.

It's week 3 of my workout challenge and I am almost convinced that I will probably survive the next 5 weeks. Regardless of the pain and necessary sacrifice I will soldier on.  However in the event that I don't, I would like Sarah McLaughlin to sing In the Arms of an Angel at my funeral, partly because it's a lovely song, and partly because I don't think in my current condition I'd ever get through the pearly gates on my own steam.

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.