Louie Legs

I woke up on Tuesday morning with Louie Legs. Or at least that's what I imagined they would feel like- no scientist or doctor has confirmed it yet. But I know that when my sister says her legs are dead and can't move and my legs are dead and can't move it's not something we ate.

Now I don't actually have Louie Legs. Instead I'm insane enough to be running a half marathon in a couple months for the first time. Does that qualify for half insanity. So dead legs for me are actually fatigued, overly worked, unappreciated, under coddled and nursed legs. They hurt all around probably like logs would which were just cut off the tree if they could feel. My sister's legs on the other hand, scratch that, on the other foot hurt from the inside out. The bones hurt. I think the hone marrow is wading war or having a ridiculous party without caring about the cranky, creaky neighbors (ie the bone shaft and rest of the leg).

I made myself get up but knew the moment I went vertical how Sis feels even going pee- too much work. I made myself work out on the elliptical (it was cross training day thankfully), hoping all the deadness would either ooze out my toenails quickly or resurrect to full working order. Some things aren't even attempted by folks with Lupus. Oozing or resurrecting death is usually out of the question. Rolling over for another hour or two of sleep is a much better option.

Well, my Louie Legs must have been jealous of the extra attention my sister gives her legs because no type of revival came to pass. Instead, after doing my bidding for most of the day, they took me to bed for a nap. (That focused dragging to bed might have been the only enthusiastic movement of the day.) Naps end quickly, though. My legs refused to hear the alarm. We compromised- one more trip out and then early bedtime. By the end of it all, my legs were a little jealous but completely empathetic- when Louie says play dead, it's not time to shake.