The UnMerry Maid

Housecleaning sucks. I know I signed on to do this voluntarily and I know it's for a good cause. Turns out, I'm pretty good at it, too, if a little slower than I should be, but I can work up the efficiency. Thing is: it hurts.

My feet hurt, my knees are bruised like I'm a five year old in the summertime, my right hip aches for reasons passing understanding, my lower back is about to revolt, and my right hand is demanding my left hand learn how to scrub. I have blisters on my palms and I smell all the time of bleach and lemon-scented PineSol.

Worse than this, though, is the continuing physical exhaustion. It's eight-fifteen right now and I'm pondering how soon I can logically go to sleep. This has been going on for weeks now and I'm tired of being tired.

Surely, my body will acclimate, right? I mean, I never considered that a forty-five minute daily workout might not have prepared me for eight hours of actual, physical labor. But the truth is irrefutable. I'm a weenie. And a whiney weenie at that. A weary whiney weenie.

And, sadly, that's the best writing I've done this week. Too tired to stay up till eleven is one thing, but too tired to WRITE is a problem.

Thank God for a five day weekend, starting NOW!!!

For this evening, I'm going to make popcorn (real popcorn, not that microwave stuff...) and read a Nora Roberts. Her heroines tend to make me feel more aggressive and capable. That can only be a good thing.

Happy Thanksgiving to all, and to all my English friends: enjoy Thursday!