Saved By Spoleto
Piccolo Spoleto saved my life.
You may remember that when I reached Charleston, SC for the Piccolo Spoleto theatre festival something I dealt with probably the most was finding myself In the Worst Shape of My Life.
In middle school my brother Eric and I used to play marathon games of raquetball. In high school I ran a 12k marathon. In college I was on the Ultimate Frizbee Team for my first couple of years. But years since then of desk jobs and of eating tasty food have taken their toll and taken their toll quickly. Last year I thought of nothing, other than the inconvenience, about walking the length of the UVA campus with a full bookbag slung over my shoulder. Next thing I know I'm in South Carolina and I'm gasping for air and desperately looking for places to sit to rest to my aching back after having walked only a block. When did this happen? I mean, I remember having had back problems in Ashland, but not like this. It felt like it just snuck up on me after the weeks of sitting at my computer fruitlessly working on job applications and thesis revisions.
But time at Piccolo Spoleto helped. After two weeks of having to walk every #$%@&ing place, I was better. My back still hurt, but by the last days, I was walking two or three blocks without having to sit down and without being winded. And now ... the wine shop.
I didn't get the teaching jobs. I didn't get the library jobs. I didn't get the receptionist jobs or the copywriter jobs or any of that. I got this job at the Wine Shop, admittedly, one of the coolest places in the universe, where really cool people do really cool things. I mean, it's a nice place to work, and I am now awash with wine. (Anyone want to taste the difference between a German and Austrian rose? They're in my fridge.) But in addition to that, I'm standing at the register and tooling around the shop and lifting wine boxes all day. I come home (Isn't it strange that those two words differ only by an opening consonant and yet they have different main vowel sounds?) tired and stiff and sore. And all I can think is, "Thank God I went to Picolo Spoletto." Because if I had started this job before that, I would've either collapsed or quit after the first day.
So my day is walking the three blocks to the bus stop ... all uphill, (At least Charleston was flat.), sitting down once, passing by the senior citizens who stare at me as I huff and puff (Oh, yeah? Well fuck you, grandma!), riding downtown, walking three more blocks in order to spend eight hours sneaking seats when I can get them. I swear, no one else in that store seems to need to sit down. Was there really a time just out of college when I would stand at a register for six hours straight and only suffer slightly sore feet? Ah, glory days.
You may remember that when I reached Charleston, SC for the Piccolo Spoleto theatre festival something I dealt with probably the most was finding myself In the Worst Shape of My Life.
In middle school my brother Eric and I used to play marathon games of raquetball. In high school I ran a 12k marathon. In college I was on the Ultimate Frizbee Team for my first couple of years. But years since then of desk jobs and of eating tasty food have taken their toll and taken their toll quickly. Last year I thought of nothing, other than the inconvenience, about walking the length of the UVA campus with a full bookbag slung over my shoulder. Next thing I know I'm in South Carolina and I'm gasping for air and desperately looking for places to sit to rest to my aching back after having walked only a block. When did this happen? I mean, I remember having had back problems in Ashland, but not like this. It felt like it just snuck up on me after the weeks of sitting at my computer fruitlessly working on job applications and thesis revisions.
But time at Piccolo Spoleto helped. After two weeks of having to walk every #$%@&ing place, I was better. My back still hurt, but by the last days, I was walking two or three blocks without having to sit down and without being winded. And now ... the wine shop.
I didn't get the teaching jobs. I didn't get the library jobs. I didn't get the receptionist jobs or the copywriter jobs or any of that. I got this job at the Wine Shop, admittedly, one of the coolest places in the universe, where really cool people do really cool things. I mean, it's a nice place to work, and I am now awash with wine. (Anyone want to taste the difference between a German and Austrian rose? They're in my fridge.) But in addition to that, I'm standing at the register and tooling around the shop and lifting wine boxes all day. I come home (Isn't it strange that those two words differ only by an opening consonant and yet they have different main vowel sounds?) tired and stiff and sore. And all I can think is, "Thank God I went to Picolo Spoletto." Because if I had started this job before that, I would've either collapsed or quit after the first day.
So my day is walking the three blocks to the bus stop ... all uphill, (At least Charleston was flat.), sitting down once, passing by the senior citizens who stare at me as I huff and puff (Oh, yeah? Well fuck you, grandma!), riding downtown, walking three more blocks in order to spend eight hours sneaking seats when I can get them. I swear, no one else in that store seems to need to sit down. Was there really a time just out of college when I would stand at a register for six hours straight and only suffer slightly sore feet? Ah, glory days.
posted by - caj at 8:18 AM
2 Comments:
Forget standing at a register 6 hours without sitting. Remember walking from Center City to Fairmount Park - Fairmount Park PROPER, dear readers, not the Art Museum - to spend the afternoon wandering and chasing a discarded tire around, then walking back to the Liberty Bell area? THAT was exercise.
(. . . and isn't my memory just scary sometimes? If only I could reliably remember my keys . . . )
Oh, yeah, you were playing tennis regularly then, too.
That said, congratulations on your back feeling better. Back pain seems so common, but it must be so awful. And, believe it or not, I can relate to the huffing thing a bit. My daily exercise involves getting out of the NYC subway, which usually involves several levels of ramps and stairs. The first few times I did the R-to-F train transfer at 9th Street I was literally breathless and seeing black spots when I reached the top, while little old biddies and persons far heavier than I was were trotting past me right onto the train.
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