Today was all about kicking my ass, I think. Out the door at six this morning, covered in sweat by six-thirty, and eleven more hours before the work day finally ends.
I stripped down as soon as I got home, threw my clothes straight into the washing machine. I’m surprised it didn’t start crying or catch on fire or something. The thing is, I generally smell pretty good, I think. I try to be careful with my stench, you know? I realize that when I sweat, I smell bad. But this was out of control. This was…I don’t know, man.
Eleven hours of solid labor, that’s what it was. Hauling fifty pound bags of sand, and of salt. Loading and unloading boxes of muriatic acid, hefting buckets of chlorine and boxes of inflatable toys.
I got home, took a shower, and sat down to write. I realized that my water glass was empty, and when I stood up to refill it, my knees buckled. Like actually buckled. I can’t remember when the last time that happened was. Probably when I started back in February.
Don’t get me wrong—I fall down a lot. But this was different, because it wasn’t expected. When you’ve just knocked back a gallon-bottle of ten-dollar gin and you’re dancing on top of a Toyota Camry that you’ve covered in cooking oil, you sort of expect to fall. When you’re perfectly sober, and just trying to stand up, that’s not really when you’re prepared to fall.
It was still pretty hilarious, though. People falling is always pretty freakin’ funny.
So anyway, I’m beat-down tired and my entire body’s freaking out from having to do so much shit today. I had planned on sitting down with a cool refreshing glass of whiskey, but I’m beginning to think that that might not be such a great idea—five o’clock comes awfully early, and contrary to popular belief, waking up before dawn with a hangover the size of a pony isn’t the coolest thing ever.
It only sounds nice because “pony” is a fun word. Pony. Say it.