My thighs haven't hurt this much since that beginning kickboxing class in which we spent a full half an hour bobbing and weaving (kinda ducking, but without bending over) to avoid incoming hooks. That was ten odd years ago.
I needed the rails to make it down the stairs this morning.
I hobbled around like a twit to and from the buses. I needed help to disembark a bus.
It's bad, folks. Really bad.
I was supposed to run this morning. That didn't happen. I went on the elliptical instead and didn't go very fast or have the resistance up very high. Last night, I tore the place apart looking for my Rub A535 and couldn't find it.
So, today, as part of my day off writing stuff, I'll be spending a good amount of time trying to massage the lactic acid out of my thigh muscles and hoping that it gets my legs working well enough for more torture tonight. Fingers crossed.
Reasons for having a significant other: they can massage sore thighs for you while you nap/game/read. Honestly, it's the only reason I'd consider at the moment.
Happily, my brain is getting put back together, though I'm continually mashing it up with Welsh lessons. One day, though, I hope to be able to listen to Radio Cymru and understand absolutely everything.
For now, I'm going to massage my thighs while biting down on a stick to prevent myself from screaming.