But aside from cooking my chicken livers, I was a powerhouse of accomplishment today. You woudn't believe that three days ago I was a quivering aching mess of tendinitis and bone spurs. First I painted the two stairs that have bugged me for the last five years. Then I went by work and retrieved my boot shelf, came home and assembled it, and then removed all the rugs and carpets and furniture from the front hall, vacuumed it with two different vacuum cleaners (because one is powerful but the other has a crevice tool), then got down on my-- bum, actually, since I can't kneel, and washed the linoleum with scrub brush and soap. Haven't done that this decade and possibly not this century, and the exercise proves alas that that tile has had its innings and really needs replacing. It's disheartening when you acrylic polish your tile and it still looks dull.
But I vacuumed all the rugs and replaced them, thereby covering the unsatsfactory tile, put boots on the new shelf- which stands out in its unfiniished pineyness; would stain it but the job's far too finicky- and said what a good boy am I.
I agree, this would have been much harder fifteen pounds ago; but why then did the bra that fit happiy fifteen pounds ago so signally fail to hold me in through the afternoon's endeavours? Sheesh. Am also wiped, suggesting that whatever malaise was bugging me last week may stil be lingering about. To bed.