On Sore Muscles and Their Causes

Nearly every Saturday this month of October I will be working as a bartender at Poison Girl.  I’ve been giving up my shifts as a barback regularly for a few months, but now I actually have a reason to do so with bar shifts picking up like a cheap date.

In addition, with Megan stretching each morning and doing yoga or pilates or variations of, I decided to play soccer this past Saturday for the first time in months.

Equation:

2 hours of running/sprinting while playing soccer in the late afternoon sun
+
5 hours of standing on one’s feet serving drinks
=
Sore body

Sore Muscles?

I have no idea what that picture is supposed to represent, but it is the first in my series of Using Pictures Included in Google Image Search That Seem to Have Nothing to Do With the Search Topic.  In this case, sore muscles.

Actually, it sort of looks like a shot I did a few times in Poland during my last excursion there.  It was all the craze, and I don’t remember exactly what it was except that it included two kinds of liquor (one vodka, naturally) and its name involved a dog somehow.  Rabid Dog?  Bull Dog?  I don’t know.  I just know that between the two liquors a helping of tabasco sauce was floated, and the dog bit.  And still, I did at least two (three?) of those shots but, in my excuse, they were free.

So now you know my excuse.  For what, I’m not sure, but just imagine it excuses whatever wrong I’ve recently done you.

Megan’s excuse for sore feet and hands and muscles is that she’s been cooking.  All day yesterday and most of today (details forthcoming, just not today) she’s been on her feet, cooking, and if you’ve ever spent a day (or half a day) (or both) cooking then you know that soon enough your feet began betraying you, and there’s nothing you can do about it, except sample the food that you’re cooking which quickly adds to the weight on your feet and destroys the fruits of all your labors.

What I’ve discovered is that this playing soccer plus bartending is bad for the bodily business, at least in the short term.  In the long term, I imagine that my soccer playing will enable me to get back into shape, at least assuming that I don’t destroy the fruits of all my labors through drinking to kill the pain of my sore muscles.

But soccer is my great love, even though I have played it infrequently in the past year.

Am I willing to continue to suffer this suffering?

For love, all things are possible.

Also, for food, or so Megan’s creations convince me.

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