> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://dianaludwick.com/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Skip - URL: https://dianaludwick.com/skip/ - Published: 2026-02-23T16:08:58.000Z - Updated: 2026-10-24T20:11:26.000Z - Description: “Skip,” a reflection on aging, humility, humor and the over-ambitions of a 40-something trying to return to an exercise routine. Written February 23, poem 054 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo: "Elevated Leg Deflated Ego," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026. - Author: Diana Ludwick - Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Humor, Poems, 40-somethings, Aging, Community, February, Fitness, Humility, Impatience, Injury, parenting, Sadlarious, Skipping, Sprain, Women, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03 *Never Miss a Monday!* She beams. I text my workout friend "Oh Boy!" while I side eye my virtual instructor who bounces coyly \-- well not so much -- on my treadmill screen. OK let's *do* this! I say feigning enthusiasm in my neon tiger print kit smiling with my lips if not yet my eyes. Because it's a Monday, after all and I'm snowed in with my kid yet another No School Day these kids are going to be in school until July at this rate. I clock my instructor's bright orange sports bra-- hey she matches me!-- and her iridescent glitter and her high pony braid I ease into her party: "*Fiiiiiine* I can do this vibe" I say, relenting to the screen. Roll the speed knob forward to 3.1 MPH and incline up to 2.0\. percent. *OK let's shimmy it out!* She says. I smirk, "Shimmy??" OK. I wiggle my shoulders raise and drop my arms a true smile creeps into my eyes too this is starting to feel fun. OK! She continues. *Drop the speed to 1-2.0* *and let's MARCH!* March? OK here we go: *1, 2, 1, 2, 1, 2--* *Now.*..*SKIP!* Oooh skipping! How camp! I haven't skipped in ages! 1---2---*pop*\-- *OOOOOOH.* An IED detonated in my gastrocnemius. Oh GOD am I this OLD?? I exclaim to the basement. Come'mon Di, Walk it out you got this -- don't quit now -- *OK let's get into our RUN!* *She beckons.* Sorry Jess King that's a No for me, Queen. Keep walking, with a limp pick up phone, open browser: What does Dr. Google say? "Assess the severity of your strain--" "Level 1 - minor inconvenience" -- OK sooooooooo the pain Is certainly more than 'minor.' Daaaaang. I read on: "Level 2 -- significant tearing -- minimum 4 weeks recovery" Oooh that sounds bad I better walk slower. Roll the knob back to 1.7MPH. Call my husband, Speed Dial 1 He's at work but regardless answers me on first ring anyway. I grimace as I sheepishly explain the *I Love Lucy*\-esque mishap of my own making. "Take it slow Babe, walk gently." "Yeah Yeah, I'll try" I reply. Click. Seven painful minutes later I take to more Googling. "For level 2 strains and higher: STOP *IMMEDIATELY*" "Not in five minutes. *NOW*. GET OFF THE MACHINE." OK OK geez! I slow the Tread to a stop drop my good leg to the floor. Then try to move my bum one. Oh my God I am really screwed. This is agony. Have the presence of mind to hobble to the chest freezer in the mechanical room to grab my husband's ice wrap. Manage to make it up the flight of stairs to ground floor. Heave myself to nearest couch *Ugh* this is going to be terrible. Call out for pre-teen to come save me. "Please! Please come! Bring me an ACE bandage! And Advil! Please quickly! And pillows!" I hear her eye-roll from across the house it's almost as loud as was the pop in my leg. "UGH *WHY* MOM!!!" "Please please just help me." By now, my neighbor and synchronous workout buddy has noticed my stalled metrics and abrupt departure. She texts: *OMG U OK?* *Need me to come over to help?* *My husband shoveled the drive!* I so appreciate her and yet-- how embarrassing! How awful. To be visibly broken - to need help. No no, untenable. I send her a snap of my injury with a goofy half-smile emoji and a crying-face one for balance. "I'm fine I'm fine, kiddo will help me." I want to spare my friend the inconvenience and obligation. She deserves to finish the class. "OK, I'm jogging in your honor!" I feel that love come through to me. My child arrives at last clutching a beige roll: "Is *this* it?" She scrunches her face, uncertain. Yes, yes! She learns on the spot how to wrap me, well sort of. "It needs to be *compressive*" I coach "...and this... is too... loose." "Whatever Mom! I got this." I sigh slowly, quietly. Soothing mental mantra time: *I am grateful. I am grateful.* Next on goes the lumpy velcro ice pack -- It's too floppy, love-- No it's *NOT*!-- And she helps me heave my orange Lyrca-ed leg onto a stack of velvet pillows. *I'm having a privileged problem* I contextualize, internally. She ambivalently covers me with a sherpa and fleece blanket finds a bottle of ibuprofen: "This one's not open yet--" "I don't CARE, LOVE...." She hands me two rusty orange pills I swig from my workout bottle and groan "Ooph, thanks hun." She scurries off before I can hurl further asks her way. How did I get here? I'm just forty-two Why am I so decrepit? When did this happen? Who knew I'd skip like a CD and not a kindergartener. What I'm facing for recovery is not yet clear but what is: in my Monday of mayhem I know that I am cared for on this snowy icy day with my iced pulled leg and my haughty head.