Ouch (an update)

*Trigger warning for foolish injury details.*

You know those hot videos of strong women crushing watermelons with their thighs?

I want to be one of those women.

Last fall Max and I were discussing this while cuddling, and naturally it turned into wrestling. The usual dynamic when we wrestle is that she’s my coach and I’m her little athlete. I was pressing my thighs together, squeezing an imaginary watermelon with all of my might, and she was putting counter pressure trying to pry my knees open. “I’m gonna win,” she taunted. “Never!” I cried. I am stubborn. Too stubborn. Suddenly there was a loud noise that sounded like a zipper. We both stopped, stunned. What had we done?

Other than pressure in my pelvic area I felt fine, ever since childbirth my hips and pelvis sometimes crack when I’m stretching, we wrote it off as a weird anomaly and went about our lives. We even joked about it with Mimi and O while setting up for the slumber party. Ruffian behaviour.

A few months later I noticed a sharp pain, but only when I twist my left thigh quickly, using what my dance instructors in high school would call your “turn out muscles”. That’s weird. But it only happened once in a while, so I didn’t think much of it.

But over the past few months I haven’t been able to do yoga stretches. My left thigh is so tight and sore now, it hurts to sit with my legs crossed or do lotus pose. I found myself avoiding certain things, the pain was getting worse. I went to the doctors, she suggested X-rays and ultra sound to see what’s up.

The ultra sound technician kept going over the same spot, right where my thigh meets my pelvis, in the crease of my groin. She asked, worried, “did you fall?” I shook my head, “did you lift something very very heavy?” I answered no, giggling a little. I’m not a gym gal, I don’t do heavy lifting. And then, as I lay in the dark room staring at the ceiling with the technician rolling cold goo over my hips, it hit me. The zipper sound. The watermelon training. Oh no.

I didn’t say anything in the moment. I waited for the results. But friends, when the very serious surgeon asked me how I made this 4.5 x 2.5 cm tear in my adductor muscle I simply could not look this 60 year old Indian man in the eye and answer “lesbian wrestling”.

How could I admit that I would rather tear my own muscle from the bone than let my girlfriend win? I look like a reasonable 43 year old woman. This is decidedly unreasonable. “At the gym,” I lied. He went back to explaining the plan, 6 weeks of physical therapy, another ultra sound, hopefully avoid surgery.

My new physical therapist is in her 30’s, she recently moved to Canada to escape the shitty racial climate for Muslim women (and women in general) in the U.S. She likes my tattoos, she’s funny as hell, I like her right away. When she asks me how I acquired this injury I’m sheepish, “have you seen those videos of girls crushing watermelons with their thighs?” I tell the story and her bubbly laugh makes me feel better. We make a plan for treatment and she’s tender with me. As she shows me the last strengthening exercise she smirks, and places a bouncy ball the size of a watermelon between my thighs. “You know this one,” she teases.

So yeah. I’m a fool. A scrappy gay fool. And as I’m on the road to (potential) recovery I get to constantly meditate on my foolishness. Max has a lot of old-man sayings from growing up in the country that I love, but one of them comes to mind often while I’m doing my physio exercises; “play stupid games, win stupid prizes”. 🍉