I’ve been hitting the gym, lately. Our new offices are in a residential high rise building with a pool, a spa and a small gym. There’s a few different machines there, but I’m old-school and mostly stick to the dumbbells and the inclined bench, along with the bike to warm up and warm down. I’ve been working out during my lunch breaks in an effort to get a bit healthier and to lose my big fat gut that’s been developing over the last couple years. I’m half expecting to give birth to an alien chest burster one of these days.
Anyhow, last Friday I decided to blast my calves by performing Standing Calf Raises, where you find a small step or around two inches, place your toes on that step and then raise the rest of your body up that step using only your calves. I remember from my younger days that I had really good calves and could do Standing Calf Raises while carrying 90kg on my shoulders. No other muscle group was ever quite as strong as my calves. I was proud of my calves.
So, remembering this, and remembering that I’m a old, fat, unfit, baldy bastard I decided to take it easy and gently ease into my calf routine. I settled on picking up 15kg dumbbells in each hand for a total of 30kg extra weight while making sure to warm them up, stretch them out and cool the down afterwards. I blasted away at them for 20 mins or so and felt pretty good about it after I’d hit the showers.
The next day I was a little sore all over as you’d expect, but Sunday was torture. In fact for the better part of a week it felt like my calves were 3 inches shorter than they should be and just would’t stretch out enough to allow me to walk. Standing was painful, and I hobbled around like an old man for a few days.
But it was around Wednesday when a friend of mine spotted me at the train station waiting for the train home, headphones on and eyes closed. I was most likely listening to Echoes by Pink Floyd trying to dull the slow throb I was experiencing after forcing my legs to carry me the few blocks from my office to the train station.
I felt an intense flash of pain shoot down my leg from the back of my knee all the way to my heel. I thought someone had taken a flying Karate side kick at my calves, but it turned out I’d only been lightly poked behind the knee in an attempt to unbalance me. I squealed in pain, and half the people on the platform stared at me. I was quite embarrassed.
And now we get to the point of the story. I scolded my friend who, to be fair, didn’t know the ordeal I’d been going through. But then I thought to myself “I’ll show you. Wait until I tell the Internet about this”. I got onto my phone and posted this:
It wasn’t until I’d pressed “save” that I paused and thought to myself that I could have worded it a little better. I mean on the face of it, this looks pretty serious right?
I swear it was about 15 seconds later that my phone started ringing. It was the Imperial March from Star Wars, the one I use for Suzanne’s incoming calls. It was then that I knew that it was a poor choice of words for a status update, and I should have known that Suzanne would read it straight away since she’s always on Facebook. I got chewed out, and dreaded going home because I knew I’d get a bollicking late into the night.
A couple people also Tweeted at me, asking if I was alright. HTC Sense also posts to twitter, conveniently, and it seems Suzanne wasn’t the only one concerned for my welfare. I was able to pull the Tweet easily enough after explaining that it was a joke gone wrong, but I had to wait until I got home to delete it from Facebook.
At one point I thought of adding an update along the lines of “I got assaulted at home. No security around to help me”, but thought better of it. I guess the lesson here is that I need to think more clearly about what I post. Even though I post joke statuses for a living, it might not be that funny sometimes.