Note to Self: housework is very bad for you, and should be avoided at all costs. A cleaning lady is a perfectly legitimate healthcare expense in your case.
On Saturday, I waxed the floor in a bout of temporary insanity. I knew that it would still look semi-bad, since it desperately needs refinishing, and, like everywhere else in the house, sports splotches of paint from previous bad paint jobs. One of the more depressing aspects of attempting to clean my hippie hovel is that you can work on it for hours and it still looks crappy. Whether it’s painting or cleaning, the result is never better than slightly less crappy.
I knew all this, and yet, I persisted in waxing the floor.
On Sunday, I went to do some laundry, and carelessly bent over to pick up the basket. I soon discovered that:
a. I couldn’t stand back up again; and
2. It hurt like hell.
Abandoning the laundry project, I hobbled swearingly to the phone and called a medic. As you do.
My sister hobbled over with drugs and settled me on the couch with the heating pad. You know you’re pathetic when your sister has to crutch over to take care of you. I guess it was my turn, after taking care of her for the past couple of weeks, but still. Also the irony is not lost on me that I managed to mess myself up almost immediately following getting a clean-ish and expensive-ish bill of health from the clinic.
As I write, a postcard and its magnet have fallen off the face of the refrigerator, and are lying on my waxed floor, mocking me. It’s driving me crazy that I can’t pick them up. But I can’t stop looking at them, either.