Monday, March 30, 2009

It's official.

This post will mean nothing to those not related to me, because if you didn't know my grandma, you won't know WHAT the hell I'm talking about. So either move along to, or you're welcome to stick around while I once again prove what a dork I am.

My grandma Gertrude was a....trotter. By that I mean she, well, trotted wherever she went. It was a matter of efficiency you see: if she was in the kitchen and it was time to pull the laundry out of the dryer, she trotted to the laundry room. If she was in the living room and the timer went off, she trotted into the kitchen because, you know, that .021 seconds she saved by trotting could be used elsewhere, later. I don't know that any of us gave grandma's trotting much thought until we started to notice our mother doing it too. Oh, she tried to pretend she wasn't trotting (she still denies it) but every time she trots through the house from one task to another, my sisters and I give each other a knowing glance that says "oh yeah, she's totally turning into grandma".

Well, as my sisters and I grew older, and we found ourselves pulled in several different directions, there may have been one or two times we caught ourselves trotting. I remember when I first moved out on my own, I'd come home from work and be so looking forward to collapsing on the couch in front of the TV, that I, maybe every now and then, caught myself trotting from the bedroom where I'd changed into my comfortable clothes to the kitchen where I'd grab a bowl of cereal for dinner. Because the .021 seconds I'd saved by trotting? Meant an extra .021 seconds on the couch in front of the TV. I'd laugh to myself and swear that no one EVER needed to know about this. But then, of course, when I got together with my sisters, I'd have to confess that I'd caught myself trotting....which meant it probably wouldn't be too long until I started keeping used kleenexes and stuffing them up my sleeves or in my bra to use again later.

Anyway, I just got back from a visit with my physical therapist. I'd gone, a couple of weeks ago, to have a running analysis done. That's when they have you run on a treadmill while they film you. Then they enter the video into a special program that allows them to analyze your gait and determine what is causing your pain. You know, do you pronate? Do you supinate? Are you landing too much on your heels instead of flexing through your entire foot when you run? Two weeks later then have you come back in to tell you what they've determined and how you can work with your issues to eliminate the pain.

Well, after analyzing the data, his official diagnosis?



Jodi said...

Oh dear God, you'd better start watching for signs in Anna. I had no idea it was heriditary. How frightening! Maybe, by the time Anna is big enough for it to hit her there will be a cure - I guess that's all we can hope for!

p.s. - you're a dork. I've NEVER been a trotter...

JACKI said...

LMAO! You have the trotts!!! LMAO again! I have nasty visions in my head. You see, on Tim's side of the family, having the 'trotts' means somthing entirely diferent. It means that you have the shats! Thats all I could think of when reading your story. LOL! I don't think I've ever seen my mom trott (I'm talking about your kinda trotting, not mine!) Alright... I'm stopping here...

kate said...

Ok Jacki, I really didn't need you to explain that version of "the trots". k??

I'm hoping there's a vaccine by the time Anna reaches adult-hood.

Fancy Schmancy said...

My family is much too lazy to trot, thank God!

Dee said...

I used to RUN when I lived in Nevada, and Garden Valley. Then it slowed to trotting. I remember watching Edith , Archie Bunker's wife trot and thought that was sooooo funny ! Not realizing that I did it. Now, the pitiful thing is-----my trotting has slowed to a shuffle.

Jacki, your saying goes waaay back, to------the back door trots. And that meant to the -----outhouse.

Just a little history lesson for you all.