Recovery is a Bitch

Note to self: Recovery days should be for recovering.

I took the day off from swimming on Saturday, and I had intended to sleep in, but my dual hooligan alarm clock went off at 0530, almost on the dot.

Hooligan 1

Hooligan 1

Hooligan 2

Hooligan 2

There is no ignoring a dual hooligan alarm, especially when the reserve alarm kicks in.

Reserve Alarm; will happily become primary alarm as required.

Reserve Alarm; will happily become primary alarm when necessary.

So I got up, let them out, made coffee (strategery error #1 – any hope of sleep is lost for good) and got us all a bowl of cereal. After an hour or two, the fog cleared, the caffeine kicked in, and I decided it was a lovely morning to take the girls for a walk. Both of them. At the same time (strategery error #2 – they are called hooligans for a reason).

Everybody in the car…around the lake…in the lake…back in the car. By the time we got home and I had dried us all off, I had decided I was frisky enough to go for a short run. This is a big deal for me with my crappy joints and bum ankle. Then, because for some reason I still felt like an underachiever, I decided to do some lifting at the gym. I started out mostly focusing on my legs, but I got bored, said what the heck, and did my core and arms as well (strategery error #3 – ow.).

My legs were fried at this point, which made for an interesting drive home in a car with a manual transmission and a rather stiff sport clutch. My arms were fried after being hauled around the lake by two hooligans, and then lifting. So, instead of staying home and getting some rest, I decided it was a good idea to go to a classic car cruise-in in 90 degree weather, in a friend’s no-door-having (read, no-AC-having) ’78 Jeep.

Aaand now all of me was fried. And dehydrated. And decidedly un-recovered.

But, hey, at least somebody got some rest:


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