My Morning

I awoke this morning in pain. Not the normal Monday pain which is typically a combination of headache from Sunday PM Tanqueray binge and sore, handslapped face from weekend of unrequited advances at Madhatters. Nope, today was different for some reason. It was difficult to even move. Immediately I tried to diagnose my problem. I narrowed it down to 5 things:

1) An overnight bear attack. This was of course the most logical. I live near the zoo. The zoo has bears. It's common knowledge in the bear community that I've offered huge sums of money on Ebay for baby panda pelts. Retribution time Mr. Chang Zhu Ting Ting? Perhaps. My body certainly felt as though it was ravaged by a bear but when I explored in greater detail, all scratch marks were my own and the only evidence of fur remnants were the same three hairs I've had on my chest since age 19. Bear attack ruled out.

2) Perhaps I sleptwalked downstairs to wash my clothes and instead climbed in dryer myself and banged around inside for 45 minutes? I did have the faint smell of Downey dryer sheets on my skin and the sheer amount of lint housed in my navel seemed to be a dead giveaway. However, having actually experienced being hazed in a dryer during pledge week for my high school math team, I quickly realized that what I was feeling was a much different sort of pain. (My mind then temporarily wanders back to 1993 where no pain could be as severe as mistaking a Euler-Mascheroni Constant for a Digamma Function which probably cost my fellow matheletes a chance at first place, but I digress… )

3) Perhaps I had contracted another case of DAFCIB? The cases are quite rare, but somehow I have managed to acquire the disease on 17 separate occasions in my life. Standing for “Disproportionate Amount of Fried Chicken In Bloodstream,” this illness plays no favorites. The average individual has .005% of Fried Chicken in their bloodstream on any given day. Anything above .01% is usually considered UIC (under the influence of chicken). The first time I was stricken with DAFCIB was the summer of 1987 when my I discovered an old lady at the mall giving away free Chick-Fil-A nugget samples . The next day and 87 nuggets later, I clocked in at 20 times the legal limit of fried chicken. Once in 1997 after Florida beat USC in football, I went on a 2-day tailgating binge and was rushed to the ER with 17% fried chicken in my body. At that point I was even hallucinating that my fingers were little fried chicken wings. My pinkies still reflect the scars. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember having any fried chicken on this particular Friday so I ruled DAFCIB out as well.

4) Could it be the empathy pain I'm feeling across my whole body for Meredith as she fights for her life under the icy Seattle waters while at the same time battling the emotional turmoil of her mother's recent lucidity and her tumultuous relationship with Mcdreamy? Completely plausible. But let's rule that one out too before Fabes gets tries to get all Isaiah Washington on me for simply watching such a fantastic show. Wait, that's it....

5) Fabian. Of course!! I should have realized this sooner. What I am suffering from is a 50 minute leg crushing, lung bruising, spleen stretching, nauseating gym experience on Saturday with my trainer, one Fabian Camargo. I kid you not - my legs feel like they've met with the limb grinder in Fargo. The sides of my chest are pulsating such that I’ll probably never be able to cross my arms again. My back feels like it was jumped on by an ape. Again. As for my abs, Fabian may has well been giving me straight body punches to the stomach instead of making us hang upside down on that Cirque De Sole torture device and lift our legs over our head like contortionists.

Once I’ve uncovered the secret behind my complete immobility for the day, I rolled myself into the shower stopping only temporarily to snag some vicodin in my medicine cabinet. Lesson learned? When your body talks to you while working out with Fabian, listen to it. If it says, “Tommy you’re about to black out,” and Fabain counters with “if you quit running now the hot Dominican chick on the treadmill is going to think you are a complete wuss,” defer to your inner wisdom. Nothing is wrong with a little “passout” nap on the freeweight bench. Especially if you are already listening to some Viena Teng in your ipod – it’s actually quite relaxing.