Extreme Rest.

I got in the ocean the other morning with a borrowed pull buoy to spend an hour trying to keep up with Stefan and Wil. These fish swim 50 minute 2.4 milers to start off an Ironman day. Can you say long shot? Especially with no legs. After a long warm up, we line up at the outrigger swim buoy and Stefan says we're doing four intervals to the windsock and back, an estimated 350-400m, on 45s rest. I jump on Stefan's feet and hold on for dear life. We fly out to the wind sock with the falling tide and I'm alternating thoughts with each breath "I can keep up! I'm going to die!" We turn back into the current and I come to a dead stop. My legs are itching to kick. Stefan and Wil are gliding away. But oh no, not me. I am hovering over a purple coral head on nature's freaking treadmill. A wave breaks on me and I finally get moving, legless, and come in 15 seconds behind. Four intervals become five, and each time I start with the fishboys and get dropped on the way in, fighting the temptation to kick into the current. We get out and my lats are cursing me. Cramping, yelling, and refusing to lift my arms over my head to let me stretch. All signs of a great swim.

I wake up the next day and can't walk. I hobble the mile from my car across chinatown to my office, wincing. My hips and glutes ache just standing still and I can't bend my right knee. I haven't attempted a bike or run in a week. All there was to set me back this far was that swim. With a pull buoy and zero flip turns. 

While it may seem that I'm just getting lazier.. I decided to take it another step. To nothing. Complete, utter rest. I left my coach a voicemail, thanking my notsolucky stars that he didn't answer, letting him know that I would be doing abso-smurf-ly nothing for a while, don't call me, I'll call you, buh-bye. I did this rest thing once before, for about six days, after Sky was born. When I ran that sixth day my mom hollered out the window at me that my uterus was going to fall out. Which turned some heads - a hard thing to do in Berkeley. This time I'm not at all worried about my uterus, and I'm shooting for seven days. My thighs might turn to jello, but I have lululemon superpants that can hide that. My brain, however, I'm not sure how to handle. In two days off I've done more stupid crap than I have since my last bout of pregnant-brain, including, but not limited to:

Running out of gas. In my driveway.

Calling to have car towed to the shop because it starts, then it just dies.

Asking what's up with all the patriotic July 4-esque decorations at the mall.

Telling a man at a party "I think I went to high school with you." Umm, no, dumbass, he's just famous.

Forgetting to shower, because well, the shower comes after the workout.

Telling my husband that Vince Vaughn is hot. A couple of times. OK, a few.

My sister has been helping amuse me, by squishing herself into my daughter's clothes and setting up dramatic scenes with the kids' toys for me to find around the house. It's going to be a long week.