I guess I can add ‘forgetting our five year anniversary’ to the blossoming list of reasons why I suck as a girl. I knew that it was in January sometime, but checking my own Facebook profile at lunch today confirmed that I had missed it. And yes, I know how lame it is that I listed our anniversary date on Facebook, but it was clearly a wise decision considering how lousy I am at remembering it.
Apparently the 19th of January marked 5 years since the day Ian and I began ‘dating’. I use the term loosely, as there was no official conversation during which we both confirmed that we were in fact turning down other sexual partners, but we both agreed that the 19th would work because that’s when we both recall first
sleeping together hanging out.
Our five year anniversary was last Saturday, when Ian and I were at a friend’s birthday party. He is German. And a chef. He cooked us traditional German food with curly kale, potato, and sausage. It was extremely filling, and prevented me from working my way through more than 15% of the birthday cake. At the party, full of people in their 30’s (apart from my good, youthful self), conversation inevitably turned to babies, weddings, and other such revoltingly mature stuff. Being the ones sans baby (there was a baby there), Ian and I began being asked when we’d tie the knot/procreate/etc., to which we both pulled the whole ‘it’s too soon’ card. This brought questions of how long we’d been together, and we couldn’t quite decide whether or not it was more or less than 5 years. I made a mental note to check at some point. I then proceeded to drink more beer, which I would regret during the next day’s long run.
Anyway, five years is a long time. I am officially in my longest ever relationship, and despite not even knowing what day it was, Ian and I got a decent ‘anniversary photo’ at the party:
In other news, I have been taking it unchacteristically easy at the gym these past couple of days, mainly because my lower right abdominals have been pretty tender and sore. This occasionally happens since my abs are generally weaker since my abdominoplasty (posh word for ‘tummy tuck’) in 2007, since the muscles were cut and sewn back together. For the past few years, after an over-enthusiastic high kick in an exercise class, I get bouts of tenderness where I tore my ab muscle just a bit, and then didn’t let it heal properly because I was being a dick. I assumed I was going through another one of these ‘I have overexerted myself and will have a tender stomach for a week or two’ experiences. Unfortunately, I went to Google and started self-diagnosing. This is a REALLY SHITTY IDEA for a raging hypochondriac, and I obviously came to the conclusion that I had a hernia and that I would need surgery that would put me out of exercise for months.
I hate feeling like one of those people who waste’s people’s time, but since I needed to go see my doctor anyway (to get a letter saying I’m unlikely to die during the Paris marathon, and please may she run), I booked into what I can only assume was a cancellation slot this afternoon (usually I have to wait at least a week). After a lot of poking and prodding (and grimacing), I am told there is no obvious hernia, though there could be a small one deep within the ab wall, but that it could just as likely be the same superficial muscle damage that has plagued me for years. Diagnosis? If it still hurts, go back in a few weeks for a scan and take it easy with abdominal exercises.
I am feeling a little more positive, but opted against heavy weights tonight, because if it involves teeth gritting and grunting, it involves my core. Instead, a late anniversary dinner of Mediterranean fish cakes with Ian.