fall chicken

So last night as I was getting ready for bed, delicately putting my pajamas on so as not to jostle the insanely huge dinner in my stomach for fear I would explode, I realized with horror that something was "not right" in my joints.

Not the kind of "not right" that is laughing at midgets. Not the kind of "not right" that is Katy Perry's career. No, this was the kind of "not right" that involved attempting to contort myself in a variety of yoga and yoga-esque positions in a vain attempt to release the air pocket that was lodged somewhere between my stomach and my kneecaps.

I never used to have these problems. I was the indignant one when a friend or associate of mine would shove their hands under their necks and crank sideways in order to release a volley of snaps and crunches that I was sure would end in their death before my very eyes. People who cracked their knuckles were worse than parents who kiss their babies' heads.

But, after starting to work out pretty regularly about three years ago, I realized that strain on the body results in odd puffs of air being trapped inside you where you least expect them. Then, when you turn to the side to catch a glimpse of a fat squirrel running across the street and your back snaps unexpectedly, releasing you from a tension you didn't know you had, it's on. You spend the rest of your days trying to recreate that sensation, like a drug addict chasing his first high.

If you have never known the frustration of needing to "crack" a body part, then let me break it down for you. It starts as a little seed of an idea: "You know what would feel good right now? A tiny little pop. Just a small one. Loosen those joints up."

It quickly progresses to: "Yeah remember when I said it would be nice to release some of this built up air in between your bones? I meant that if you don't do it soon, this shit is gonna get real."

Then escalates to: "You fucked with the wrong air pocket this time. You think you were uncomfortable before? You can twist your spine off now for all I care. This shit's gonna stay unpopped till the break of dawn."

I twisted and flopped and stretched and pulled for hours, trying to get comfortable. Never in my life had I experienced air so stubborn, or so painful. I never did get it, and I spent the entire night in uncomfortable positions, unable to get a solid hour of sleep in.

This brings me to my next point: I am getting old.

I don't know how this happened, but although I am currently in the best physical shape of my life (I'm not one of those people who are proud to be in "high school shape" again...I'll admit it, I was a fatass in high school) and yet I am plagued by aches and pains that I thought I didn't have to expect until I was 55 at the very least. What the hell, body? Do I have to break your spirit so you let me sleep at night without complaining about a sore ankle or a tender muscle?

I have four weeks left until I'm scheduled to run a half marathon, but at this rate I"m wondering if all of my parts will be in working order on game day. Best case scenario is I'm the one snapping and cracking down the street in my race bib, trying to convince my body that age is just a number...