Two weeks ago, I slipped on the ice. It was nothing at the time: slow motion slide to the ground as I walked around the back of my car. No bumps, no bruises. Just a sore palm from scraping against the ice as a last hurrah.
I was fine. Until the next night.
I made it through 15 minutes of 4-year old creative dance before I could no longer put my right hand on my waist. By the end of the night, I was sitting curled up in a ball, barely able to lift my head up to direct my students through their exercises.
It was pathetic.
Thankfully, a blizzard rolled through our area and I was able to cancel the next two nights of classes. Unfortunately, said blizzard also cut off my access to my physiotherapist and I wasn’t able to see her for a full week
Let’s just say that the “healing” pain I finally endured made me sob silent tears into my pillow and pop more Motrin than I could refill in a day…
After tweeting with my angel of pain, it became clear: just dance (or just running, or just anything) wasn’t going to cut it anymore. I needed support. I needed strength. I needed to stop using physio as my personal expensive bottle of Advil to get me through the season. So I called in the pro:
Jessica Zapata from Infinite Fitness. A longtime twitter friend and renowned fitness expert in these parts…and by “parts”, I mean across the country. The woman is a force to be reckoned with. As I would soon find out…
Within a few days, with couple of keystrokes and an online coaching program made with love, I was laying on the carpet of my basement floor, willing myself to stand up. Thanks, Jess. You single-handedly destroyed me from the comfort of your home office. I love you THIS MUCH:

She warned me: Monday and Saturday would be my hard days. But really??! Did she have to kill me? Because I didn’t realize “hard” was code for “kill Magz, or at least maim and leave for dead”. Sigh…
I started with 2:1 sprints. 8mph for 2 minutes, 5mph recovery for one minute. Not my old sprint speed, but for 3.5 months off, I’ll take it. Oh, wait: three sets. And then an insane 3-exercise circuit on my TRX suspension trainer. Wheeee! 3 rounds!!! Then 3 more rounds of sprints!!! Then another insane circuit of full body strength training. Then???!
She expected another round of sprints! For the ever-lovin-love-of-mother-truckin-mud. Thank goodness my IT-band decided to squawk loudly, thus allowing my dignity to creep down to a brisk walk without feeling like I was quitting.
I’ve never passively stretched so passively before. I basically laid on the floor and willed body parts to flop together while I trembled uncontrollably. I gulped water like I’d spent a month in the Mojave desert. If I breathed too quickly, I coughed like I’d inhaled a gust of sand and fiberglass insulation. I could barely hold up my own body weight to roll out my aching legs.
Then I dragged my sore-y ass upstairs and poured myself into a bath that was half Epsom-salt brine.
Tomorrow is my day off. Someone should really check in to make sure I’m not dead. Don’t panic if I don’t pick up my phone. The thing weighs something like 85 grams. So. Heavy.
This, my friends, is payback for every client I made puke or cry while I did a “maintenance” workout after their session. And then drove to McDonald’s.
Karma is a bitch.