A few weeks ago I woke thinking about two friends from college.
No funny ideas please, let me explain. The two friends in question were polar opposites. One, lets name him Ken, was the outgoing, energetic, fit as a fiddle livewire. He needed no excuse to climb scaffolding on the way home from a pub or go for a run to shake off the hangover the next morning. The other, for arguments sake, Martin, was of a more sedintary disposition. He loved anything that came in a pint glass, was relaxed in all situations and brought a sense of calm to all occasions.
One evening, Ken decided to go ice skating for the first time with a friend of ours. Afterwards they came back to the flat I was renting with Martin. We had pizza and a few beers (to cancel out the exercise) and were sitting watching TV when Ken burst out of the couch grabbing his calf muscle and screaming in pain. He assumed the foetal position on the floor and started rocking back and forth begging for help.
Martin had doubled over laughing, pointing at Ken and finding it difficult to breath. I also think he was a bit miffed that Ken had interrupted the television viewing. I went to Ken’s aid and helped him stretch the cramp from his leg. I’d watched enough soccer games to know what to do! Then a few Saturday mornings ago I realised what it’s like at the other end of the cramp.
I had just semi woken up, was nice and warm and thought that a good stretch was in order. The minute I moved my leg my calf muscle got my shin in a head lock and knotted itself into a ball. Being considerate and thoughtful for Eva who was still asleep beside me I valiantly bottled up the searing pain and the urge to leap out of bed. One and a half seconds later I couldn’t hold it any longer, leapt out of bed, did a bit of shouting, followed by some manly wimpering and finished it off with good dose of self pity.
And they say men can’t handle pain?!