1. How to weed-whack. Calmer Half got an electric one that’s light enough, and low-vibration enough, I can manage it even with all the old injuries.
2. That weedwhacking is a severe forearm workout. Ouch. Even splitting it over multiple days and switching hands, I still have a third of the fenceline to go before everything in the backyard is done.
3. That when I grumble “No wonder men are so much better at yardwork than women! They do forearm workouts regularly!” and make a certain motion with my right hand in the vicinity of my groin, the men in my life really shouldn’t be drinking anything. Sorry about the sinal rinse, there!
4. There comes a point in every adult’s life when they should admit that no matter how they try to clean and fix something, it’s never going to happen. And that, funds permitting, just getting a replacement is the far wiser choice.
5. How many calendar weeks and manhours have been fruitlessly sunk into denying this fact is… usually more related to pride or sentiment than budget.
6. Next time I assemble a new cat tree, I’m bloody well locking the cats in the bathroom first. Trying to assemble a cat tree? Easy. Trying to assemble it with very sore forearm muscles? Hard. Trying to assemble it with a proper ratcheting wrench with the right socket and bit instead of the Chinesium allen wrench included? Far easier. Trying to assemble it with a ratcheting wrench with the proper socket and bit and two cats’ “help”? ARRRRGH!
7. And last but not least, quite disconcertingly: my habit of making notes to self on obscure federal regulations and checklists to remind myself of how to do common and uncommon things… in the absence of any other guidance at Day Job, and given they were stored in a folder on a shared server as backup, have somehow become a manual. I… I think I need to go back through the entire collection, expand shorthand to self into complete sentences and clean out all the numerous typos and accidental dual capitals, the sarcasm, the military-origin acronyms and black humour…
Even though it’s too late. I mentioned to New Boss that I’m dyslexic, and got this smile. “I know.”
When I’m done, especially if I assemble it into a coherent structure that flows from subject to subject, it’ll look like I meant to do that. Which… is not that far off the last manual I wrote, either. Or for that matter, the one before that. Or…
Sometimes adulting is not so much the smooth coherent competence that it appears to be, and rather a whole lot of ad-hoc engineering, entire sets of coping mechanisms built into habits, a healthy fear of second-order consequences, some black humour and some daydreaming to cope, and exhaustion.
What’s that got to do with writing? Eheheheheheheheheh. Funny you should ask… Yeah, sure, looks like I know what I’m doing, we’ll roll with that!