Since resuming my membership of the sports centre five days ago, I have visited every day - and no, not just to check the timetable or use the vending machine.
Two days ago, I reached untold heights of pleasure by swimming for the first time since before my breast ceased to be watertight and fully encased in skin and began its six months of being pierced, sliced, stitched, infected, creamed, irradiated, peeled and cooked. The wounds are still sore but they have sealed themselves up, so there is no risk of swimming pool water and/or germs getting in through fissures in my skin, nor of bits of my boob leaking out into a communal, municipal facility. Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water - it is!
Immersion and movement in a body of water is surely the nearest thing to corporeal heaven here on earth. Maybe it is the floatiness, maybe the coolness, maybe the luscious sensation of water streaming over skin or muscle pushing water backwards as water propels body forwards. Whatever, I loved it so much that I overdid it, and now my pectoralis major and teres minor are paying the price. At least I think it is them. I am no expert on the muscles of the armpit and boob, but I do know that they hurt. And my boob appears to be expressing solidarity with some well-aimed shooting pains. Too much breast stroke, if you please.
But no matter. Nothing is torn, no wounds reopened, no real harm done. Maybe thirty lengths was a bit excessive, but it is all part of getting back into shape and I am glad to be back.
Meanwhile in the gym, I have a new strategy for the arm-operated weights machines: don't have any weight on them. None at all. Pull out the pins and do some easy lifting. Movement is more important than load-bearing or resistance at this point, and frankly, the state I am in, just lifting the handles is quite heavy enough.
Onwards and upwards.