Sunday, March 11, 2012

Hip Flexors Are Hazardous to Your Health

Stretching is for chumps and old people, neither of which I am. So for the past six months, post five-mile jog, I bend over clutching my sides, willing the fire in my lungs to go away, dry heave a few times, and go on my merry way to my car. Cool down? Sorry, I’m in impeccable shape. I don’t need that trash.

Or so I thought, until I ripped my hip flexor and was thus introduced to the medieval torture device commonly referred to as a foam roller. 

Much to the dismay of my #Occupy friends, getting a job really does solve a lot of problems, including the debate of healthcare. No thanks, Socialism, I prefer to pay my employer to provide insane benefits like an onsite physical therapist…until I realized that some sick sort of demon must be downstairs because only Lucifer himself could produce that sort of pain in my thighs.

Let’s first state the obvious but important fact: hip flexors are in a really awkward spot. 

Hey, Doc, can you massage my lady area for a minute because I’m physically incapable of walking up the stairs without short outbursts of pain? Awesome.  Also, your fingers feel like daggers. Good news there. 

After 30 fun minutes of Edward Scissor Hands stabbing his way to my recovery, I had the distinct pleasure of meeting the new bane of my existence: the Foam Roller.  For such a benign looking apparatus, this little cement cylinder of joy packs more pain than breaking my arm and getting my appendix taken out combined. After a mere three rolls on my thighs, I was sweating profusely in a lump on the floor of the doctor’s office trying to bury my shame and tears in the cold tile. 

“I know this sucks now, but keep doing it and you will feel so much better. You’ve got a lot of old wounds to work out,” says the greek god of a medical professional, who is more than likely judging the fact that my arms and legs are shaking like a tweeker with nothing to do.

Ouch. On so many levels.

The past 10 months of trails left their mark on my body. My back cracks more than it used to, there is a slight pink scar from a parkour attempt gone terribly wrong, and when the weather changes, I could swear I have the knee of an 86 year old.  Doc told me about this gross stuff called ‘grey matter’. It is a result of the toxins that seep their way into your life daily, and if left unattended begins to weave itself into the fibers of your muscles, slowly reducing your ability to move freely. Seemingly harmless, a small amount of grey matter finds its way into your body daily, and will go unnoticed until one day, you can’t life your arm above your head. Stretching after exercise breaks down that material and disseminates the toxins, allowing your body to undergo the natural healing process, breaking down the unwanted assassins slowly picking away at your health. 

Life altering wounds are glaringly apparent. Infected, painful and excruciatingly public, our injuries are exposed to the world, forcing us to answer for them. We wear our divorces, break-up and losses on our arms like gauze-laden bandages, unable to hide them from prying eyes and genuinely concerned friends alike. The smaller lesions are easier to cover and even easier to ignore. Bitterness and hurt are covered with new outfits, sleeves pulled down, makeup put on thick to cover the bruises and cuts left from biting words of disappointment from a parent. 

There is no foam roller for life, forcing you to bear down and slowly work out the kinks of the day. We emotionally push ourselves to the limit with new jobs, new lives and new relationships; yet forgo the integral piece of healing through community, prayer and encouragement. Striking out solo to fight the emotional battles of the day, we brush off the pain and play through the ache, more willing to speak to those closest to us about the wicked bruise we got sliding into home than the failure we felt from a presentation gone awry. 

Healing isn’t a onetime thing, only needed when a bone juts through the skin or post-surgery. It is a daily process that both grows and comforts. Christ offered us spiritual foam rollers through accountability and prayer. It hurts. It isn’t fun, and most importantly, it takes effort. I have to physical force myself to lie on the ground and get on what I now call the 7th circle of hell, but after snotting all over my carpet and shedding a few unhindered tears, I find myself more limber and a bit less fearful of the contraption in front of me.  After particularly grueling runs, I find myself running straight to the roller, straight to the comfort from the journey that left me winded and hurting, straight to healing that I so desperately need.