Ibuprofen and Soap

I seem to be living off of two things this week. And, yes, they happen to be Ibuprofen and soap.

Why? Because I'm not as young as I used to be - and because I like to be clean.

You see, Christopher and I live in a 1950s house. Which means that both the interior AND the exterior are in need of a little boost. So while we were having the bathrooms redone, we also realized that a couple more of our yard-anchoring shrubs were on their last legs. To be honest, they were probably on their last legs last year. But I kept hoping that there would be a botanical miracle and they'd be fine.

They weren't.

So last weekend we headed to the garden store to find some replacements. And last weekend I dug holes and planted two of the three new shrubs. As well as about a dozen other plants that I purchased to fill in some odd holes in our annual plantings for this year. We all know what that means, right?

Planting = Dirt + Water + Outdoors in the sun = A need for lots of soap (of both the hand/body variety as well as the laundry variety)

Here's the thing, though. There's another equation to factor into the... well... equation:

Manual labor + 48-year-old semi-inactive body = A morning after that makes me miss the days of hangovers.

Yeah, okay, that was painful. But it was done, right?

Wrong.

My body gave out before the planting did, so last night after work I was out doing it again. Thankfully, this time, only one shrub. But, first, I had to rip out the old one which - though it was pretty much on death's door - didn't want to go. Remarkably, though - with the help of some pruning shears, a spade, and a whole lot of brute force - it went. And I came inside with only my hands covered in mud that had seeped through my gloves.

I'd probably have been mostly okay, but after I got all cleaned up I spent 2.5 hours putting grout sealant onto the grout in our new basement bathroom tile floor. (Yes, I know that I owe you photos.) Two and a half hours of kneeling, sitting, crouching, leaning, and otherwise lowering myself to work the tile into the floor grout was painful last night. And I worried it would be bad today. I was right.

Tonight, then, I decided to rest, right?

Wrong again. As I type this I have flecks of blue and white paint all over my hands. And my right arm. And the bottoms of my feet.

Why?

Because part of the plan of redoing the bathroom included repainting the downstairs bedroom. After all, since the rest of the basement is kind of torn up, but moving in the right direction, it seemed like the perfect time to paint the bedroom. And it was about time, since - when pressed to name the old wall color - Christopher simply called it "dirty."

So I spent about 4 hours cleaning, prepping, and painting tonight, and then another 30 minutes or so trying to get it all off of my hands. And - all in all - I'm pretty excited about how it all went.

Mentally, at least. Physically... well... We'll see whether or not I can move when my alarm goes off in the morning.

Which reminds me - it's time for more Ibuprofen.