Of Hills and Hamstrings

We just returned from what I like to call my annual "voluncation" where I go upstate New York and get to be a stage director again for an enormous theatrical/religious undertaking called The Hill Cumorah Pageant.

I am in no shape to be climbing hills and stages.  And yet, I went.  Next year, I will be lighter.  That is my vow.  But this year, not only was I too fat for the Hill, I had also suffered a serious injury just prior to departing.

I'm calling it a sky-diving related incident.

I'll save you the awkward details of the lead-up to the incident, and simply explain that, while walking on a rain-wet surface, I slipped, and went down.  All. the. way.

Fat people should not do the splits.  I thought I was fairly limber.  I'm not that limber.

In my mind, this is what I looked like when I fell:

In reality, it probably wasn't that glamorous.  My poor son who was with me, managed to assist his fat old mother upright, up a few stairs and a couple blocks to the car, whereupon I had a good cry, then drove the 60 minutes home, groaning in pain every time I had to apply the breaks.  I thought surely this meant I wouldn't be able to go to pageant.

But, my hamstring was only severely strained.  Which heals rather quickly, even though it left a very, very ugly bruise. But, by the time my flight left for New York, I was barely limping and was beginning to do stairs.  Slowly.  I took the hills and stairs slowly all week, mincing steps like a little old lady, and avoiding the highest stages at all costs.  But I did it.

Next year, I won't be so stupid, nor fat.  I showed the picture to my boss and his response was:  "well, at least you stuck the landing."  True that.