In January Chaz joined a local fitness group organized by our neighborhood Fleet Feet store. Twice a week, the group meets and runs together up and down the streets of Blue Ash and Montgomery. Speakers share running tips. Nutritionists help fine-tune their diet. Runners commiserate with one another and bond over blisters.
It’s a great program and I’m all about exercise. I know from experience that exercise keeps you sane (and slim). I’m thrilled he’s found something he enjoys and is making lifestyle choices that will ensure that he’s with us for a long, long time.
But (the real meat of it always comes after the “but”), I admit I haven’t been as supportive as I could be. After each run, he hobbles up the stairs and ices his knees. The next day, he wears icy hot sleeves that allow medicine to penetrate his knees for 8 hours.
“Maybe running isn’t for you?” I ask. “Maybe something else wouldn’t hurt your knees as much?” I bite my tongue to not add “permanently damage.”
He’s frustrated. With his knees for not cooperating. With me for not supporting his new hobby. He really, really likes it. And, after Christmas, he’s completely outfitted: new shoes, new thermo pants, running gloves, jackets. Some might say with a diagnosed case of runner’s knee, he’s truly in the club.
I. and I visit Dick’s Sporting Goods as part of Mason Youth Baseball Appreciation Day on Saturday to purchase new baseball shoes for the spring season. Baseball players of all ages pack the store. Everyone’s armed with coupons. Everyone’s there to buy. It’s a mad house.
After we find a pair of size four cleats, I. and I head over to the running section.
I want to surprise Chaz with some good running socks. He’s got a pair he loves and I’m trying to find the same pair. Who knew there were so many choices? Thick. Thin. Thermal. Wick-weaved. I’m exhausted just looking. I don’t need to run, I think I need a nap.
We pick what we think are the pair he’ll like, buy them and take them home. “We got you something,” I say. I. rustles through the bag, pulls out the socks and hands them to Chaz.
“Are they the right ones?” I ask hopefully.
He flips them over and inspects the cotton. “No, but I’ll keep them.”
Give me a little credit. I’m trying.