The Dangers of Walking Dogs

Lately, I've been feeling my age. Well actually, maybe I've been feeling my past. My right foot hurts both in my heel where I have a serious case of tendinitis called, of all glorious names, Haglund's Deformity, and in my big toe where I've developed a bunion that flares from time to time.

My left leg hurts from a nagging case of sciatica fueled by a bulging disc in my back and a hip bone that is twisted and smooshed from a shorter left leg. In my right elbow, I've pulled something that makes it difficult to pick up anything heavy. I need to take some time today to do some serious stretching to relieve the tightness in my back, butt, and legs.

When I wake in the morning, I limp and shuffle to the bathroom and achingly squat onto the toilet. The walk down the stairs is assisted by the hand railing and I'm sure to take one step at a time.

I am only 50 years old though on days like this the "only" feels like a cruel joke. Yesterday, I was a couch potato unable to really feel motivated to do anything other than shop for groceries and make some bread.

I know all of this makes me sound cranky and whiny, but mostly my aches and pains make me feel reflective. As I moaned and groaned yesterday from the couch, worrying out loud about my condition, Ann consoled me by saying, "It's okay to relax. You work hard walking dogs all week long. You need to rest. Let yourself rest." (See why I love her?)

I know that many of my injuries are irritated by walking dogs. I walk about 3 hours a day and second only to my shoes, my body is taking a beating. But my injuries are leftovers from a lifetime of competitive sports and I can trace each kink and cringe to that volleyball season where I played with a sprained ankle, the track season when I raced with a pulled hamstring, the endless practice sessions where I jumped up and down stairs (with 25 lbs of weight on my back) to build strength in my legs, and the hours of diving after volleyballs, basketballs, baseballs, and god knows what else.

So now, when I walk -- just simply walk -- all those nagging injuries flare up in weird ways. My feet have taken the worst of it, the roots of my ability to run fast, jump high and far, and lift heavy objects. I wear orthodics in my shoes and my shoes must be incredibly supportive in order for me to buy them. And then they only last about 5 months if I'm lucky, wearing out like butter in the sun. When I wake in the morning, I must stretch my feet for a good 5 minutes before I can attempt walking and all the rest of it -- the sore butt, the sore back, even the elbow -- I know come from my crappy feet.

And now I'm attempting to make a living by walking dogs (and throwing the ball for them) during the day and standing at a retail job at night. In between it all, I sit at a computer and work on my writing and even that has detrimental effects on my aging body.

This was something I hadn't predicted when I left teaching and entered a world that focused on my feet, on my body. True, I've lost about 12 pounds and I know I'm in good cardiovascular shape, but oh how I hurt, which is something I never would have guessed would have be the outcome of such a career move.

All of this is to say, I'm not ready for a 9-hour shift today. I'm dreading it, in fact because I'm scheduled to work in the pack department, on a Sunday, during a sale. That means I will be lifting 30 pound loaded packs on to small women and tall men all day. I will squat down to fill the pack on the floor, hoist it up onto a back, and lift it back off again and again and again until it fits the customer in such a perfect way they're ready to fork over teh $250+ to purchase it. In between the bazillion customers who've come to the store to take advantage of the sale I'll rearrange packs hanging on the wall, clean up the pack display (people just rummage through and throw those packs hithter and thither), and restock the department with packs stored on high shelves in the warehouse.

All for about $90 for the day.

And tomorrow, it begins again though I am thankful that I only have two dogs to walk followed by a much shorter shift in the pack department (5 1/2 hours instead of 9).

Who knew such a career change could beat me up so?

Okay, I must go and stretch before donning my green working vest and hoisting packs onto the backs of eager hikers.