So I'm taking a shower and, upon looking myself over, I see that I am covered with more colorful markings than a cheetah if cheetahs were black and blue.
Bruises are pretty much inevitable when you are being systematically rolled out like cookie dough, and, as it happened yesterday, repeatedly stomped on like a bunch of grapes at harvest time.
So Paul put me through the T-Rex stretch, the new "Buffalo Wing" stretch which felt as though he were attempting to crack my pelvis in half; and finally he stood and stamped out both legs from the knee to, well, higher above the knee.
But he wasn't done pulverizing: he flipped me over and slung one of my legs over a foam roller. He began to re-crush the leg but now from both sides.
"How's that working for ya? Ha ha!" He looked suspiciously as though he might be enjoying this too much. Was this payback for the burning building scenario?
Since I was face down on the floor with a large man grinding my inner thigh into primordial pulp on top of an asphalt-hard roller. I did grit out between clenched teeth that he ought to consider investing in upholstery to pillow the roller. Since I was directly in front of 30 or so high school athletes, I was limited in my exclamations.
By the time Paul was through turning both my legs into steak tartar, I was feeling not only much looser, and light-headed, but also as if I had moved one entire zip-code away from my butt. No doubt I was experiencing the spiritual high of having my leg muscles try to ascend into my chest cavity.
Paul assured me that crushing me with his feet in this way will make me more flexible.
Certainly, it's going to make me more interesting to my doctor at my upcoming annual physical.
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