Tir Na Nog

And now for something completely different (no pools, no toes, no hips), let's talk about Ireland.

Does anyone remember the show The Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog?  Or was I the only nerdy graduate student who wasted her time watching a show about battles for ancient Ireland? And who, on a side note, also wasted a lot of time with Mork & Mindy and Are You Being Served ("are you free, Captain Peacock?") reruns? Imagine if I had spent all that time studying! I could have actually gone somewhere and made something of myself!...oh..wait..well..)

Anyway, the Mystic Knights of Tir Na Nog was my first encounter with Ireland. Well, that and the lovely mother from Titanic who, as the ship is sinking, puts her children to bed and reads them a story about, there you go again, Tir Na Nog. Growing up in Europe, I was, of course, more than familiar with the ongoing "troubles" in Northern Ireland (and possibly even more familiar with the music about that era), but the rest of Ireland was always little more than a haze of green fields, rain, druids, Celtic women in large dresses singing old songs, and stories of immigrants trying to get across the ocean to the US.

Fortunately, my ignorant little soul is going to get an opportunity to educate itself on Ireland, as next week I will be at a conference to Dublin. There are a lot of downsides to my job as a professor, the crappy pay, the long hours, the difficult students, the crappy pay, and well, you are all more than familiar with the long list of woes, but one of the major perks of working in academics is the opportunity to travel. Granted, you do need to conduct some research, turn it into a paper, and then get it accepted by said conference. And you also need to make sure your university is willing to pay for at least part of the cost, but once you've achieved all of that, this traveling gig is a real perk.

In my case, the paper that landed me at the major international conference to be held in Ireland focused on the study that involved research assistants and Steve, my former colleague who is busy finishing up his PhD at his Big Midwestern University. Much to our surprise, we found some pretty interesting things, and fortunately, the reviews at the major conference agreed, and so this Saturday I will be on my way to the airport. The conference doesn't start until Tuesday night, and since exploring a country by myself isn't half as much fun as exploring it with a friend, Mary, she of running awesomeness (who in a less awesome move, transferred to Italy) is flying up to meet me, and we will exploring this rainy, green, druid-filled country together. Not only has Mary been to Ireland before, she's an even better planner and tour guide than I am (as proven by the fact that she's already figured out which bus to take to the airport to pick me up), and she's pregnant and has already threatened to buy me every single drink she wants but can't have. This is what I would call a win-win situation, people.

To be honest, not all is well in Dixiechick-travel-adventure-land. Lately, I've become a little freaked out by my accommodations. Because my university is generous but not exactly in a Daddy Warbucks kind of way, I'm having to pay a considerable chunk of the expenses for this trip out of my own pocket. And back in February, when I booked everything, saving on accommodations seemed like a great way to go. So I booked a room on campus. A single person dorm-room. Back then it sounded great, it cost only 43 euros a night, included breakfast, I'd have access to a kitchen, the campus gym and pool, and did I mention it was only 43 euros a night? But now, as my departure date inches closer I'm starting to feel a little queasy. What if I'm surrounded by partying students? Or worse, man-sized roaches? Or a really, really nasty bed? According to husband-dear, this is a) slightly ridiculous, and b) probably still a remnant from the accommodations trauma I endured in China last year. In order to assuage my fears, he suggested I look at pictures online, as it really couldn't be that bad. And so I did. People, I am paying 43 euros for a monk's cell. Or, if you're from Holland, a prison cell. Cinder blocks, a bed, a desk, and a bathroom so small I have the feeling I'll be standing on the toilet to take my shower. Fortunately, reviews call it "clean", "modern", and make no mention of bugs or dirt (although some did complain about partying Italian students), but still, part of me wishes I had just splurged and checked into a nice hotel downtown (although, as husband-dear points out, I would still be freaking out about bedbugs, and he is so right).

But accommodation-fears aside, I am excited to finally see Tir Na Nog with my own eyes, meet up with a good friend, catch up with former colleagues at the conference, and, of course, present Steve and my work to the academic community at large. I will keep you posted.

And that's all I have to say about that

So 2013 will probably not go down in my personal history as the most athletic year ever. I know, I know, the year's not even half over yet, and it's possible I'm being slightly overly dramatic, but sheesh, people, sheesh!

First there was that pesky hip/ groin problem I told you all about. You know, it hurt, I rested, it still hurt. I rested some more, but no cigar. Not only did that nix my chances of participating in the half ironman I had been training for, it also pretty much made it impossible to swim or bike. I could still run, thank the Lord, but long training rides or swimming using my legs was out of the question. Hello pathetically short rides and floaties! You can imagine I have just been an absolute bundle of joy these past weeks. 

But, as the problem-solving, type A, oh-my-god-I-have-to-train endorphine junkie that I am, I of course wasn't about to just let this run its course. While well-meaning friends said things like, why don't you just take it easy and float around in your pool, and, you know, rest will make it all better eventually, I was in my PCM's office at three weeks. And when her admonitions to just rest and ice did nothing for the next two weeks, I got a referral to see an office specialize in orthopedics and sports medicine. Yes, I may cry when I've had too little sleep and I can't find my favorite pumps, but when I put my game face on, I get things done. Even things involving the notorious government-run health benefits plan, Tricare. 

So last week, I went to see said orthopedic surgeon. After filling out an 11-page questionnaire that not only covered my medical history but those of my parents and siblings as well, and three x-rays, I had my diagnosis. And something else. But I'll get to that in a secod. As expected, I had a strained adductor, as well as tendonitis of the iliopsoas. Say what? Or as the Dutch would say: Broodje kammewattes? I have basically messed up the thing that connects my muscle to the bone as well as a tendon that runs in that same area. Fun! Fortunately, this is America, and there are solutions for everything, which in this case was physical therapy. Great. 

But there was another small issue. Minor, really. You see, when the doctor looked at my x-rays, he noticed a funny lump on the ball of my hip. This is, apparently, not normal. It even has a fancy-pants name: femoral acetabular imingement. For those of you into Googling (or Bing-ing), my particular kind is known as a cam lesion. And what, you may wonder, is the prognosis? Well, fortunately for you, I wondered the same thing, and asked. So according to this doctor, and every single website I have read since then, it could lead to early onset arthritis, surgery, and hip replacement. Good-y. The first sign of the lump on the hip becoming a genuine problem is a clicking noise, so I was to keep my ears out for that. 

So after that strange news (hi! I know you're here for a groin injury but let me tell you about something unrelated but pretty major that is wrong with you! You're welcome!), I went off to physical therapy. And one would think the story ended there.

Alas! There is a third thing. Yes, really. And this can really only be blamed on my own complete klutzy-ness. Last Friday, as I was playing with Shelby, I ran past one of our bookcases. Well, that was my intention. I made it past, my leg made it past, and the majority of my foot did too. Only my little toe decided to stay behind. The same little toe I broke back in 2009. You can imagine what happened next: A very blue, very swollen, and very broken toe (on an upnote, I did not cuss or cry, which is, if you know me, truly worth mentioning. The dogs just seemed really surprised at the very long and loud primordial scream I produced instead). So instead of running, biking, or swimming this weekend, I have instead been hobbling around in a pair of flip flops, grimacing at every movement, and googling questions about the duration and size of swelling and bruising. 

And that is why this morning, I sat at the physical therapist's looking like this:

Electrodes for my hip, a sneaker on one foot, and a flip flop for its bruised and swollen sister. 

And when I did my leg-lifting exercises this morning, guess what I heard? Yep, an onimous clicking sound. Bright orange walker with tassles and a bicycle bell, here I come!

I am, to use a good old southern phrase, such a mess. Thank goodness for pool-tinis.