Oh, my bruised and battered body. It is almost as if my life as a desk-dwelling knitter-librarian has not prepared me for hard physical labor. My legs and my bottom and my back are linking arms in an Irish bar song of pain. Not my actual arm-arms, though. Evidently my arms are accustomed to hefting books and toddlers, and then from the armpits down I am just a person-shaped sack filled with pudding.
And all I did was clean windows. I stood at the sink, wiping grime as thick as gravy off of louvers that had been rusted shut for 30 years and wondering what I had gotten myself into.
Why is it so dark in here? OH HEY.
But they are my disgusting louvers, and you have to start with basic wiping before leaping in with power tools and paint rollers.
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