Today's editing job was a pleasant and badly written document, 44 single-spaced pages, which I would usually request 12 hours to edit. However, the client is on a tight budget and could only allow me four. Four. Crazytown. I did a crap edit, which never feels good, even if that's what the job was. Editors are perfectionists. And also a little nuts.
Then I attempted to hang a string of lights inside my front window, something I've been attempting to do since we took down Christmas last week. First, Husband gave me a string of lights that worked fine outside but were half burned out by the time I got them hung (something I didn't realize until after I'd hung them). I left them up for a week, half of them twinkling at me, half of them dark as the Grave, but today I'd had enough. Since I was at CVS anyway, I perused their post-Christmas 10 million percent off light selection and came home with 150 indoor/outdoor white lights, with the curious notation "grid."
Well. Those of you more familiar with light lingo than I (which would be pretty much anyone) know that I don't want a "grid," which is a squarish small web; I want a "string." I spent almost a full hour cutting apart the webbing that made it a grid, so that I could have an approximation of a string (and I tested it periodically to make sure it worked before I hung it). Except — right before I hung it I must have cut a wire, not a string (they looked identical) . . .
. . . because after I hung it, I plugged it in. And it didn't light.
It was only two dollars, but still. A whole hour!!!! And it's not like it was fun.
I gave up and laid down on my bed to drink Diet 7-Up and read my new Maisie Dobbs book, which is awesome! And it's so cold outside and so cozy inside, and I've gotta tell you: The only thing I wanted to do less than go to zumba tonight was to de-web another string of lights.
I think you get the picture.
But I didn't even entertain the thought of ditching for more than two seconds; I put on my big-girl sports panties and headed out into the minus trillion degrees to zumba. Because I am awesome.
(I said this to myself a lot in the car, as a little pep talk, and then watched my words freeze in the air. It is DAMN COLD here. You get that, right? Anyone who voluntarily leaves their house to exercise in this weather should get a medal. Or a puppy to hold. Something.)
And then — the Italian Spitfire wasn't there. The sub was Young Camembert, who's taught us before; she's 12 years old, adorable and bouncy, with no center of gravity whatsoever, but her class is always fun.
Except and except.
- My arthritis is temporarily acting up, possibly because of the cold weather; it'll get better
- Because I haven't done zumba for two weeks, all my muscles and joints have stiffened up; it'll get better
- My arthritis has gotten much worse; it won't get any better; I can't do zumba any more
I barely broke a sweat!
And now I'm depressed and worried, rather than smug and exuberant, like I usually feel after zumba.
Ugh ugh ugh.
I'm still glad I went though, rather than chicken out and stay home. And now I have a hot bath, ibuprofen, and Maisie Dobbs to look forward to — and that's something. Plus, I made money today, and I have work scheduled for tomorrow and the next day as well. And I have a new job to apply for, Content Editor for Web courses at some college somewhere — very part-time and temporary, but I can totally do it. I'll send my application tomorrow.
(I did hear from one of the other jobs I applied for, the Oral History transcriber or whatever: "We regret to inform you that we are unable to pursue your candidacy any further on this occasion." Yes, it's a rejection, but so genteel! And: I think I'll survive.)
I have another zumba class on Thursday, we shall just see. Maybe I'll do some serious stretching ahead of time and take prophylactic ibuprofen. Couldn't hurt, right?
OK, time for bath. We'll see if I can get in and out of the tub with no assistance, since I'm a hundred freaking years old, apparently.
Ugh ugh ugh.
— Lady C Methuselah