Well That's Stupid

Yesterday afternoon, I was sprawled out on the funky square-patterned area rug in my back room with a yoga strap, bent on getting my notoriously tight iliotibial band to loosen up a bit before I headed outside for a jog.  Quincy immediately assumed his watchful post--he and Holly have recently taken to "supervising" me whenever I practice yoga, do pushups or situps, or engage in any other physical activity that requires being on the floor. 

For some reason, today's task proved particularly daunting. 

"What the heck are you trying to do?," he asked me, lying just beside my head as I grimaced in pain.

"Trrrrrying.  to strettttch.  my legggg." I uttered through clenched teeth, using that humble canvas torture device to force my stubborn appendage across my body.

"Since when does stretching hurt?"

He demonstrated with a perfect downward dog.  Perhaps that pose should be renamed "downward cat."  Or maybe just "downward Quincy."

"See?  No funny faces.  That's how you're supposed to stretch."

"I know, buddy," I assured him.  "But I'm going to have to push myself a little farther if I'm ever going to make this better.  And I can't run without hurting myself if my legs are this tight."

"So let me get this straight," he said.   "You're hurting yourself now so you won't hurt yourself in a little while?"

"Yes.  That's exactly it."

"Well that's stupid."  

"Oh yeah?" I asked, feeling mildly ruffled.  "You have a better idea?"

"How about you stretch as far as your leg will go now without causing pain, and then run anyway but stop if that starts to cause pain?  And then day by day you can keep stretching more--without pain--and keep running more--without pain.  That's what I would do."

"Okay," I started thinking to myself, finally relinquishing my death grip on the strap, "So maybe what I was putting myself through was a little bit stupid."

"Of course it was." 

Apparently I require feline supervision after all.