Letter to Boston

Dear Boston,

It has been a little over a year since you first caught my eye. In those secret, wishful moments, life was filled with excitement and energy. You were good to me then, beckoning me, encouraging me to push forward and stretch my wings while continually keeping you in my sight. You were tender and nurturing as you embraced my yearnings, held my hand and led me closer to you, enticing me with your prestige and stature. The promise was full of hope and sweet dreams....

And then.....And then the secret was out. I had been lured in, captivated by your reputation and innocently seduced into qualifying myself for minion-hood. I became your slave, one of your thousands. After the cheers and hollers and the congratulations went silent, after I came down off that adrenaline geyser, only then did I realize what had happened. But it was too late; I was trapped.

Your true nature had come out and the real work began. For ten long months of pain, torture, anxiety and fear, I became a guinea pig; all the poking and prodding, and the bruises....oh, the bruises! I was like a trendsetter, if abuse is trendy, with those dark stripes continually dotting the sides of my legs. When the physical therapist's plunger stopped working, they bought a new cupping set. When that failed, they began the ancient eastern folk medicine of Gua Sha. My IT bands purred, like rubbing a scalpel down corrugated cardboard, over and over and over again. Still, my knees ached and stabbed and shot nervous searing energy through me. And for what?

A week from finally meeting you in person, I now know the truth: you take no prisoners. You gather your lackeys and vassals and lead us into your lair where God only knows what might take place. We can only hope to come out the other side unscathed. And I can hardly stand the excitement! Because apparently I am a crazy lunatic. Just. Like. You.

So dear, dear Boston, I beg of you: go easy on this here gal. I have done everything you asked. And so much more. And I would really like to come back well enough to walk into the PT's office again unaided. Because what am I without their pleasant torture? And who am I without running freakish distances for no apparent reason at all? I beg you not to leave me forever bound to the pool, because it might just do me in, if you haven't already done so yourself.

Please be kind.

Humbly yours (because you made me so),
The Graceful Chicken