Last week, I had my month-out post op appointment with the neurosurgeon who performed my microdiscetomy last month. I was granted the all clear to resume “light exercise” (swimming or an elliptical), PT and finally, after 4 very long weeks of going to splash parks and pool parties and not being allowed to get wet, permission to submerge my scar in a body of water of my choice.
I also got to stop taking all of these (which look pretty freaking scary when you like them up):
For my maiden dunk, I choose the public pool a few blocks away from our house and set out on Friday afternoon, timing my departure so that I’d arrive just as the summer campers were leaving for the day, thus giving myself 30 minutes of child-free swimming before the pool closed.
I forgot, unfortunately, that the Parks and Rec folk seem think that summer only last for about three and a half weeks here in Philadelphia. And even though it had been in the 90s all week, the pool was already drained and ready for winter.
So I did what any self respecting and industrious newlywed would do: walked a few extra blocks to the grocery store to pick up a few missing ingredients for dinner since I was already out of the house.
I was still wearing my bathing suit, which happened the be the only one piece I own and very, very low cut, and because it was so hot out, I hadn’t bothered with a cover up except for my linen pants so there I am strolling around the produce aisle with a neckline practically down to my navel looking like some sort of streetwalker in broad daylight.
And as it that wasn’t bad enough, I heard a strange noise above my head as I was walking home again–a splat really– and no sooner had I heard it than I felt it: a fresh squirt of bird poop, down my shoulder, my scandalous bathing suit and even the brand new Tom’s backpack that my brother-in-law and his wife got me for my birthday.
This, I believe, is why it’s better not to exercise.