Yes, the title is supposed to be in capitals and an apostrophe is not missing as this post is (almost) entirely unrelated to anyone called Dominic (or Domhnall for any Irish readers).
DOMS as an acronym for Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness, something the author finds himself suffering rather acutely this morning.
I have had two (2!) colds during January – the first time I’ve been hit twice in one month by the sniffles since the mid 90s. I guess a lot of the bands from that era are re-forming, perhaps I’m just tapping into the viral zeitgeist? This, coupled with my travels across the Irish Sea, have rather interfered with my physical regimen of late and this does leave a chap more at risk of DOMS. Given some rather severe physical jerks peformed by yours truly on both Thursday afternoon and Friday morning, my current pain is not wholly unexpected: but the process does still retain an air of mystery.
I ceased serious physical activity (if we ignore use of the bike and some brisk walking) at 11am yesterday morn. I was free of aches and pains when my head hit the pillow just before midnight (some 13 hour later). When I awoke at 01:30 (not intentionally, I would stress – my obsession with the 1A peak does not stretch that far) I found that everything hurt. What had happened in those 90 minutes? Had the concentration of some biochemical clock reached a critial level freeing the pain? Does being horizontal bring it on? If so, should I take lessons from a horse in how to sleep standing up?
Whilst I ache in many places – and there is some indirect pleasure to be gained from the feeling of a job well done, or at least an ageing body punished for its failings – the most urgent pain comes from my gluteal area. This makes sitting down rather less comfortable than one would hope. In fact, possession of buns if not of steel than perhaps at least of apatite (the tastiest mineral, and several steps below steel on the Mohs scale – never say this blog isn’t educational!) is much less desirable than one is led to believe. If the buttocks both lack padding and are firm(ish) themselves, there is a lot more pressure on any chosen seat to bring the comfort and all too many fail the test. I can see the attraction of bringing one’s own “booty” to chair, sofa, bench or pew – though I fear my genetics make this an improbable outcome without surgical intervention. While I know sitting down is bad for me, I am unable to use a healthier squat for any length of time: I may be relatively fit for a chap of 50, but only in certain limited modes of operation. I also suspect that squatting, whilst better for the back may well put some strain on my whinging “ass” (to use the American vernacular).
To add insult to injury, when I emerged from beneath my duvet this morning I looked like Tin Tin. No, I had not (sadly) turned ginger overnight nor acquired a white Wire Fox terrier (an unexpected link to Montmorency – what a literary breed the Wire Terrier is!) but my hair had acquired the Belgian hero’s disinctive, soi-disant quiff (surely more of a DA?). Let’s just say it is not a look I can pull off with any panache…