I almost hate to write this because it will sound like poor mouthing, but it was another less than record-breaking week of trying to get back to training. Monday I felt bad (notice I didn't say "I felt badly" because feet is an intransitive verb and you feel bad not badly) so I went to bed early. Like in the afternoon (yes, that is a sentence fragment).
Tuesday was a hard session at rehab and then an easy one at the pool where I swam 1,800 meters. Wednesday I did some weightlifting, maxing out at 70 on the bench press, and swam 2,500 at the pool. Thursday was more lounging in the bed, trying to nap and hoping to feel better.
Friday, Sloan, the physical therapist, put me through a longer more involved workout. I liked it and the shoulder felt good when I left and better the next morning. I did not swim Friday because I was still semi-sick and I needed to see Mom.
Saturday we were originally scheduled to go the French Camp with our best friends, Debbie and Gerald Johnson, but little Corey got sick and so did I. I studied a little, drank lots of liquids, and watched a bunch of football. I didn't think it was possible, but after the Georgia game, I had had enough and turned the channel to something else. The something else was so compelling that I can't even remember what I watched, but I was filled to the brim with football and opted out of the game until next Saturday.
So all in all, it was small swimming, little lifting, and the creeping back of an unmerciful malaise. Sigh. I swam 4,300 meters, lifted weights once, and went to rehab twice. God help me, and give comfort to Mom.
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