Doing It ... And Overdoing It

It's been a week. Yard work and work-work, babysitting and fence sitting, hunting galore ... I got a lot done. Unfortunately, it's showing.

My hands are twisted and cramped - I can't make a good fist or even straighten my fingers completely. My brain is fatigued as well - I taught two night classes, one day class, and tutorial students who were catching up from spring break. I had a sort of Bacchinalia, too, and the scales reflect every (considerable) extra calorie, but even more so does my waistline - I feel like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man today. To top it all off, my neck and my shoulders are sore and knotted from the triple whammy of shovelling dirt, "lawn," and bull puckies (four calls to and from my parents). I smiled a lot, too, because I dealt with family almost every day - my cheeks ache from simultaneously holding it in place (sometimes) and biting my tongue. Yes, it was just that kind of week.

I loved it.

Okay, not the hurting part, or the eating-everything-that-wasn't-nailed-down part, but the part in which I kept going anyway was very cool. And that's how I felt. Cool. Serene. Able to go with the flow, use every minute for something productive (or something gastronomical). It was truly amazing.

Why am I feeling it then? Because I found out I can't shut it out completely. No matter how peaceful I am inside, apparently, the outside has really bad habits - push my long-standing buttons, and even though the mind knows better, the body reacts anyway. Irritation, anger, frustration, impatience ... doesn't matter how imperturbable I know I am, the muscles know the quickest way to Cramp Central. Yet I managed. Not only managed, but had fun, even found a few treasures - several nice pieces of jewelry (silver, gold, and even diamonds - small and low-quaility, but real), and a couple of nifty toys for the Big Lug. In addition, I filled in two huge chunks of yard where former trees have decomposed into swales, and I planted bulbs and seeds which (hopefully) will sprout this week. I broke the lawn cart, bought a wheelbarrow, priced the stone for the edging on the front beds, and the Big Lug turns 50 today.

Nope, can't just sneak that in, can I? Today's his birthday. His 50th. I'm writing this very early in the morning, letting him sleep late while I get Princess ready for school and hurry through a post - I don't know what we're doing today, but we're doing something. Something not 50-something. Something late. Something ... I have no idea.

Which is good. It's his day, not mine. I don't have to know everything, right? And it's good to admit the numbers, because it helps me acknowledge that maybe the body aches are from work, as I said, or maybe just habit. But maybe the ticking clock is getting to me. If today is his 50, then I have only a few years - okay, twelve - left to reach my goal. That seems like a long time, on paper, but it isn't, especially with the economy doing its best imitation of a sinking ship. Plus, time, a relative thing, moves faster as we age - I'm still trying to figure out where February went (I don't remember any of it). That means my end game is right around the corner, more real (and more scary/exciting/awesome/what-was-I-thinking?) than it ever has been.

Funny thing is, that's as it should be - I am tired, because every day, whether I remember it or not, I am moving forward. Every day is and has been another purposeful step closer to seeing his jaw drop in stunned amazement, his face light up with joy, when I am finally able to give him what he's always given me - a choice.

That's what keeps me going, what keeps me here, even what keeps me calm - knowing that I not only have been but that I will make it to that day.

One nail/shovel/weed/stone/coin/day/hour/minute at a time.