...with the trainer. She says if I'm not hurting, she's not doing her job. Well, kudos to her then!
I've gotta say it's hurting more while I'm there than the next day as most people seem to complain about. (do I get to brag about that? nah, didn't think so) It feels like I hyperventilate while I'm there & I'm not sure how to keep that from happening. Not quick breaths, but just short I guess. Today I couldn't get that last rep in because my fingers were tingling so much. That pisses me off.
I also did my own 40 min with the elliptical on Saturday. The first 15 or so were worse than the last 25, but I managed to lock my knee at one point (added to the list of things I recommend NOT doing) so was sore and limping down stairs on Saturday, and during the oil change I did on the car Sunday morning (speaking of, don't ever EVER buy oil filters from Wal-Mart, okay? The damned things aren't made to fit the same oil filter wrench that every other filter is designed to fit. Just a teeeeeeny bit smaller, making the werench slip off like a socket on a stripped bolt). The knee felt really good today though.
Next day with the trainer is Friday. I can do this, but my lungs really need to get with the program. There's also the diet thing though. Really gotta work on that.
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Health. Show all posts
26 May 2008
23 May 2008
Personal Trainer, Session One.
What I recall of it anyway.
Greeting followed by conversation about what I expect & what they can offer. Go change. Intro to the elliptical and five minute 'warm-up'. Rubbery legs at third minute. Minute five comes and I make an attempt to walk to personal trainer where stretching is to begin. I made it there, but it wasn't pretty.
I'm at a computer all day, so the stretches are for those muscles that aren't stretched while sitting in a chair. Bollocks! They're the tenderizers of personal trainers intent on devouring their prey as slowly as possible.
Thirty seconds per muscle group never took so long, and I'm also already sweating enough to drip onto the mat. What the hell?
Next up, the weights. Okay, this I know I can do. Or so I thought. The lifting I had done was rhythmical (if not all that fast), but the technique learned this day was much slower; Four-count to extend, hold for two more, then return.
My mouth is parched and we're at, what, minute 8? I actually PAID for another fifty two minutes of this? I go drink a little water before the lifting & (stupidly?) come back.
First lifts are chest down on an excercise ball, lifting the weights up from the floor. Next lifts are chest up, pressing the weights, being guided on form and count. Follow that with shoulder presses, standing & pushing the weights straight up above my head, with reminders to tighten my core (which I translated to mean, "Suck in that gut boy!") and butt (huh?) to help with balance. She even had me try this one with one foot lifted. My balance ain't that good withOUT weights & a heart rate of 160-ish, so we didn't keep at that one very long. Round it out with squats, and my fingers are now tingling.
Now is when I realize exactly where I am. Not physically (that is painfully obvious, thankyouverymuch), but geographically. The gym has the main level that you walk into & where the trainers' desks are at, but then you go down a flight of stairs to the locker rooms & work-out area.
STAIRS! After squats! So we go. Up. The. Stairs. where her desk is at to go over the nutritional side of it, me trying to not hyperventilate & get rid of the tingling sensation.
I buy some crap I probably don't need, but only because I'm afraid she'll have me get on the elliptical again to "cool down". But wait! I'm still in my workout gear, and the shower is down those same stairs. Dammit! So I go down. The. Fucking. Stairs. looking like a decrepit octogenarian (who likely would have gone down and up those stairs while rightly taunting me), clinging to the rail just at the brink of falling at each step. Get to the bottom without falling and consider this a success (until I realize it took me five minutes). Strip, shower, dress, and back. Up. The. Stairs. Thank the trainer for not killing me yet, and back to work (HA!) I go.
Next session, Monday. If you don't hear from me by Tuesday, tell the police that Kara must have finished me off.
Greeting followed by conversation about what I expect & what they can offer. Go change. Intro to the elliptical and five minute 'warm-up'. Rubbery legs at third minute. Minute five comes and I make an attempt to walk to personal trainer where stretching is to begin. I made it there, but it wasn't pretty.
I'm at a computer all day, so the stretches are for those muscles that aren't stretched while sitting in a chair. Bollocks! They're the tenderizers of personal trainers intent on devouring their prey as slowly as possible.
Thirty seconds per muscle group never took so long, and I'm also already sweating enough to drip onto the mat. What the hell?
Next up, the weights. Okay, this I know I can do. Or so I thought. The lifting I had done was rhythmical (if not all that fast), but the technique learned this day was much slower; Four-count to extend, hold for two more, then return.
My mouth is parched and we're at, what, minute 8? I actually PAID for another fifty two minutes of this? I go drink a little water before the lifting & (stupidly?) come back.
First lifts are chest down on an excercise ball, lifting the weights up from the floor. Next lifts are chest up, pressing the weights, being guided on form and count. Follow that with shoulder presses, standing & pushing the weights straight up above my head, with reminders to tighten my core (which I translated to mean, "Suck in that gut boy!") and butt (huh?) to help with balance. She even had me try this one with one foot lifted. My balance ain't that good withOUT weights & a heart rate of 160-ish, so we didn't keep at that one very long. Round it out with squats, and my fingers are now tingling.
Now is when I realize exactly where I am. Not physically (that is painfully obvious, thankyouverymuch), but geographically. The gym has the main level that you walk into & where the trainers' desks are at, but then you go down a flight of stairs to the locker rooms & work-out area.
STAIRS! After squats! So we go. Up. The. Stairs. where her desk is at to go over the nutritional side of it, me trying to not hyperventilate & get rid of the tingling sensation.
I buy some crap I probably don't need, but only because I'm afraid she'll have me get on the elliptical again to "cool down". But wait! I'm still in my workout gear, and the shower is down those same stairs. Dammit! So I go down. The. Fucking. Stairs. looking like a decrepit octogenarian (who likely would have gone down and up those stairs while rightly taunting me), clinging to the rail just at the brink of falling at each step. Get to the bottom without falling and consider this a success (until I realize it took me five minutes). Strip, shower, dress, and back. Up. The. Stairs. Thank the trainer for not killing me yet, and back to work (HA!) I go.
Next session, Monday. If you don't hear from me by Tuesday, tell the police that Kara must have finished me off.
27 January 2007
I can still count to ten.
How I Met Your Mother had an episode not too long ago that briefly made fun of opening some consumer packaging. Specifically, the plastic shells that surround electronics and other items. The farce was opening one of these shells containing a pocket knife; If only they had something to cut open the plastic ...
Yeah. Funny easily grows from truth. I was trying to open such an item yesterday. Not to get to a pocket knife though, oh no. I had a pocket knife already de-plastic'd to do the cutting into a new toy's shell. The shell appeared to be easier to open, having had the equivalent of tack welding in two spots to seal it up. Two tacks, and I had just the tool to cut through them. I even felt confident that I had the brains to do so, as well. Alas...
The first step, slide the blade between the two layers of the shell, beneath the weld, and pry out & away from me. The first one went well. Easily, even. Half way to my goal, I was looking forward to the bit of fun I'd have setting up the new gadget. That was my mistake. If you become distracted for even a moment, Karma will kick your ass. I was repeating step one: Slide the blade between the two layers and get ready to execute step two of prying out & away. Sadly the second weld was not nearly as strong as the first; I slid the blade right through to my waiting left index finger cum knife-sheath.
I guess I shouldn't have been so diligent in sharpening the knife a few days before, huh?
So the blade goes with no small force into the thumb-side of my index finger at the second knuckle (a little research says that would be the PIP joint, if you're really obsessed with knowing).
Being me, I immediately pull back on the knife and see the quarter-inch wound happily start dripping. Honestly I don't think I stopped the knife going in. No, I think that responsiblity fell to the bone in my finger. It was a very weird feeling (I can still feel a very deep pain in the finger now). So blood is flowing, Mario is smirking at me with that "I saw that one coming" look, and I go to the bathroom to throw my finger under cold water. After a bit of a rinse, I put pressure on it and go get some paper towel to do a better job than just my bare hand.
Have you ever tried getting a single paper towel off the roll while one hand firmly holds the other? Ain't easy, but I used my head. Literally. I held the roll still with my forehead while I clumsily removed a towel with my pinky & ring fingers. I'm sure it was quite a graceful maneuver. Really. So after the third or fourth try, the industrial-strength, tight-weave sheet of paper towel comes loose. I'm certain that my verbal encouragement helped, too. Lots of "*"s and "@"s and "%$^!!*#$"s.
I let go the finger to grab the paper towel, and by the time I look back to place the towel on my finger... things are messy. I think to myself that maybe I should go see what hospital is in-network for the stitches I'm gonna need, but the thought of trying to type in that search with my forehead nixes the idea. Eh, I just need to add more pressure. Yeah, that's it. So I wipe some blood away to see where the cut is so I'm pressing on the right spot, and hold it straight up for a while, as I peek under it every 10 seconds to see if it's stopped yet (hey, I'm a guy). Ten minutes later I cinched a band-aid on to sorta emulate a butterfly.
It's been under a bandage since then (no, not the same one). I can still flex it and have feeling, so no permanent damage. Yay for the home team.
Out of the Bleu, Tool Shed
Yeah. Funny easily grows from truth. I was trying to open such an item yesterday. Not to get to a pocket knife though, oh no. I had a pocket knife already de-plastic'd to do the cutting into a new toy's shell. The shell appeared to be easier to open, having had the equivalent of tack welding in two spots to seal it up. Two tacks, and I had just the tool to cut through them. I even felt confident that I had the brains to do so, as well. Alas...
The first step, slide the blade between the two layers of the shell, beneath the weld, and pry out & away from me. The first one went well. Easily, even. Half way to my goal, I was looking forward to the bit of fun I'd have setting up the new gadget. That was my mistake. If you become distracted for even a moment, Karma will kick your ass. I was repeating step one: Slide the blade between the two layers and get ready to execute step two of prying out & away. Sadly the second weld was not nearly as strong as the first; I slid the blade right through to my waiting left index finger cum knife-sheath.
I guess I shouldn't have been so diligent in sharpening the knife a few days before, huh?
So the blade goes with no small force into the thumb-side of my index finger at the second knuckle (a little research says that would be the PIP joint, if you're really obsessed with knowing).
Being me, I immediately pull back on the knife and see the quarter-inch wound happily start dripping. Honestly I don't think I stopped the knife going in. No, I think that responsiblity fell to the bone in my finger. It was a very weird feeling (I can still feel a very deep pain in the finger now). So blood is flowing, Mario is smirking at me with that "I saw that one coming" look, and I go to the bathroom to throw my finger under cold water. After a bit of a rinse, I put pressure on it and go get some paper towel to do a better job than just my bare hand.
Have you ever tried getting a single paper towel off the roll while one hand firmly holds the other? Ain't easy, but I used my head. Literally. I held the roll still with my forehead while I clumsily removed a towel with my pinky & ring fingers. I'm sure it was quite a graceful maneuver. Really. So after the third or fourth try, the industrial-strength, tight-weave sheet of paper towel comes loose. I'm certain that my verbal encouragement helped, too. Lots of "*"s and "@"s and "%$^!!*#$"s.
I let go the finger to grab the paper towel, and by the time I look back to place the towel on my finger... things are messy. I think to myself that maybe I should go see what hospital is in-network for the stitches I'm gonna need, but the thought of trying to type in that search with my forehead nixes the idea. Eh, I just need to add more pressure. Yeah, that's it. So I wipe some blood away to see where the cut is so I'm pressing on the right spot, and hold it straight up for a while, as I peek under it every 10 seconds to see if it's stopped yet (hey, I'm a guy). Ten minutes later I cinched a band-aid on to sorta emulate a butterfly.
It's been under a bandage since then (no, not the same one). I can still flex it and have feeling, so no permanent damage. Yay for the home team.
Out of the Bleu, Tool Shed
23 August 2006
Crosseyed
Just picked up the first pair of replacement glasses since mine were lost at Laguna Seca last weekend. I figured this way when (not if) I lose the next pair, I'll have a backup set that's not chipped and scuffed as the current backups are. These new ones though, I don't like them. I have clarity & all, but the right lens is much more convex than the left, which is fucking with my depth perception. It makes my left eye feel weak, if that makes any sense.
Now, I'm not talking about a huge correction factor here; I don't need glasses for day to day stuff or to drive (though I wear them when driving at night). I'm going back to this doc tomorrow to see what the poop is on this, because this sure as hell didn't happen with my other glasses. The scuffed backups don't give me the grief that these are, and I see everything clearly with them.
grrr
Buddha Bar, Mambo Craze
Now, I'm not talking about a huge correction factor here; I don't need glasses for day to day stuff or to drive (though I wear them when driving at night). I'm going back to this doc tomorrow to see what the poop is on this, because this sure as hell didn't happen with my other glasses. The scuffed backups don't give me the grief that these are, and I see everything clearly with them.
grrr
Buddha Bar, Mambo Craze
5:10 am
I'm late. I slept right through the infernal alarm clock that was blaring (I'm guessing, based on the weird just-waking-up dreams) Buddy Holly's Peggy Sue among other "oldies". I find it's better to wake to music that there's an off chance I might actually like rather than some shock-jock wanna-be giggling about fart jokes. Yeah, Denver is really grown up in the radio DJ scene, I tell ya.
Okay, so I really hate it when the radio station I wake up to plays anything by Tom Jones. I admit that get's me flying out of bed to cross the room and shut the music off, but if that's all I was looking for, I'd leave it set to the fart-joke channel.
Anyway, I'm late. I'm also congested. Well, half congested & half running actually. It's bad enough when your damn nose doesn't know if it wants to run like Niagra or stop up like Crazy Glue. It's truly a sad state of affairs, however, when one nostril goes the Niagra route and the other nostril attempts... nay, succeeds in its quest to solidify.
Did I mention that I carpool to work? No? Well, I do. I call my ride & tell him to pass me by. Catch: He's already in the driveway. Fuck. Okay, rapid PBA bath & hair/tooth brushing, dressed (matching socks even) & I'm out the door in ten minutes. I'm sure I'll be castigated for mentioning how much I love being a man, but what the hell.
So I'm at work getting my caffeine buzz on when I've finally had enough of the nostrildammitallus & take some Tylenol Cold (non-drowsy). Big. Mistake. My fingers are all tingly. My nose is battling the Tylenol. Serious battling; I feel the cartilage in there ... adjusting with each chemical volley to counter the other. So much for the blood donation today I suppose.
Coworker has been struggling with math. He's taking an Algebra course and was having trouble with a two variable problem. His solution? Just eliminating the letters makes it much easier. :groan: He'll probably be promoted, too.
Stevie Ray Vaughan, Rude Mood
Okay, so I really hate it when the radio station I wake up to plays anything by Tom Jones. I admit that get's me flying out of bed to cross the room and shut the music off, but if that's all I was looking for, I'd leave it set to the fart-joke channel.
Anyway, I'm late. I'm also congested. Well, half congested & half running actually. It's bad enough when your damn nose doesn't know if it wants to run like Niagra or stop up like Crazy Glue. It's truly a sad state of affairs, however, when one nostril goes the Niagra route and the other nostril attempts... nay, succeeds in its quest to solidify.
Did I mention that I carpool to work? No? Well, I do. I call my ride & tell him to pass me by. Catch: He's already in the driveway. Fuck. Okay, rapid PBA bath & hair/tooth brushing, dressed (matching socks even) & I'm out the door in ten minutes. I'm sure I'll be castigated for mentioning how much I love being a man, but what the hell.
So I'm at work getting my caffeine buzz on when I've finally had enough of the nostrildammitallus & take some Tylenol Cold (non-drowsy). Big. Mistake. My fingers are all tingly. My nose is battling the Tylenol. Serious battling; I feel the cartilage in there ... adjusting with each chemical volley to counter the other. So much for the blood donation today I suppose.
Coworker has been struggling with math. He's taking an Algebra course and was having trouble with a two variable problem. His solution? Just eliminating the letters makes it much easier. :groan: He'll probably be promoted, too.
Stevie Ray Vaughan, Rude Mood
29 July 2006
Today's word is Calcified (kal'-sihf-eyed)
Used in a sentence: When one of the two roots in a typical tooth is found to be blocked once a root canal has begun, it is said to be "calcified".
Synonyms include: "I may have to refer you to a specialist" and "Expect to pay out the currently-numb nose" (that latter also known as, "this won't hurt a bit")
Tooth number 12 was drilled on today. From the start, I was fine & felt no pain. Okay, granted: She truly did shot enough novicane in my mouth to numb my NOSE... Then she came to that damned calcified root. I must note here that she is about the best ever dentist I've been under the drill for. Honestly. I'd refer her to anyone. Perhaps especially to the Horndawgs, because she's (oh my God, DON'T SAY IT!!) cute as a button (*sigh* he said it). But after uncovering the "C" root, all pain broke loose. It was pain-a-licious. The Pain Train has arrived en-route to its final stop, Pain Central Station. ... So she adds more novicane until even my lower left eyelid doesn't seem to want to work right.
So, in case I didn't convey this clearly enough, that was the worse of the two roots. More, it looks like she might not have been able to finish it off because that "calcification" thing could be deeper in the root. I can only conclude that the best thing I could have done to avoid this is to not have included any milk or other calcium-containing foods in my diet. Don't pay that last sentence any mind, kids. Be good and take your calcium pills...
The last part of the first half of the procedure today (yes I must go back to see the cute-as-a-button dentist... poor me), is to pack the drilled-and-reamed roots with some medicated material & let it stew for a couple weeks. After that, if there's no more calcification going on in there, I'll start having a cap made for the tooth. Maybe.
Hey, I was twiching from the nose-numbing, eyelid inhibiting, novicane when she went over that part. All I know is that I have to fill this prescription for the antibiotic that I also have to take for a week, and also the vicodin for the presumed forthcoming pain (actually it's starting to come to me now).
Even after all that, as I sit typing this, I do believe that coming off of the novicane is about the worst non-drilling part of the trip: I have an itch on my cheek, but it's totally numb when I scratch. It's as if I'm scratching a plate of glass that's over the itch. It sucks.
....
I typed all that up about three hours ago. My face has all its feeling again, but if this tooth begins to throb much more I may just tell Princess Vicodin to do her stuff.
THE GOOD NEWS: My dental insurance, bucking the trend of about every other insurance carrier I've heard of out there, has increased coverages. This root canal, had it been done last year would've been 70% covered, now is 80% covered. If I have any "major" work done (I'm assuming this is the "rebuild your jaw" type of scenario), that coverage is up from 50% to 60%. Not quite enough to put me in a Snoopy-dance mood, but it's helpful. The down side is that I have to put out $2,000 for dental stuff in a year before they cover 100%. Two grand? I don't plan on even spending last year's threshhold of $1,750 for that to kick in!
Of course that has me trying to think of how much pain $2,000 would buy me there ... And how much of a better deal I could get in a red-light district somewhere for the same money.
(this all transpired about a month ago actually. I'm all better now.)
Synonyms include: "I may have to refer you to a specialist" and "Expect to pay out the currently-numb nose" (that latter also known as, "this won't hurt a bit")
Tooth number 12 was drilled on today. From the start, I was fine & felt no pain. Okay, granted: She truly did shot enough novicane in my mouth to numb my NOSE... Then she came to that damned calcified root. I must note here that she is about the best ever dentist I've been under the drill for. Honestly. I'd refer her to anyone. Perhaps especially to the Horndawgs, because she's (oh my God, DON'T SAY IT!!) cute as a button (*sigh* he said it). But after uncovering the "C" root, all pain broke loose. It was pain-a-licious. The Pain Train has arrived en-route to its final stop, Pain Central Station. ... So she adds more novicane until even my lower left eyelid doesn't seem to want to work right.
So, in case I didn't convey this clearly enough, that was the worse of the two roots. More, it looks like she might not have been able to finish it off because that "calcification" thing could be deeper in the root. I can only conclude that the best thing I could have done to avoid this is to not have included any milk or other calcium-containing foods in my diet. Don't pay that last sentence any mind, kids. Be good and take your calcium pills...
The last part of the first half of the procedure today (yes I must go back to see the cute-as-a-button dentist... poor me), is to pack the drilled-and-reamed roots with some medicated material & let it stew for a couple weeks. After that, if there's no more calcification going on in there, I'll start having a cap made for the tooth. Maybe.
Hey, I was twiching from the nose-numbing, eyelid inhibiting, novicane when she went over that part. All I know is that I have to fill this prescription for the antibiotic that I also have to take for a week, and also the vicodin for the presumed forthcoming pain (actually it's starting to come to me now).
Even after all that, as I sit typing this, I do believe that coming off of the novicane is about the worst non-drilling part of the trip: I have an itch on my cheek, but it's totally numb when I scratch. It's as if I'm scratching a plate of glass that's over the itch. It sucks.
....
I typed all that up about three hours ago. My face has all its feeling again, but if this tooth begins to throb much more I may just tell Princess Vicodin to do her stuff.
THE GOOD NEWS: My dental insurance, bucking the trend of about every other insurance carrier I've heard of out there, has increased coverages. This root canal, had it been done last year would've been 70% covered, now is 80% covered. If I have any "major" work done (I'm assuming this is the "rebuild your jaw" type of scenario), that coverage is up from 50% to 60%. Not quite enough to put me in a Snoopy-dance mood, but it's helpful. The down side is that I have to put out $2,000 for dental stuff in a year before they cover 100%. Two grand? I don't plan on even spending last year's threshhold of $1,750 for that to kick in!
Of course that has me trying to think of how much pain $2,000 would buy me there ... And how much of a better deal I could get in a red-light district somewhere for the same money.
(this all transpired about a month ago actually. I'm all better now.)
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