Wow. Sore is not the word to describe the way my body is feeling after this marathon. I am so, totally, beyond sore. I can't say that I've ever been pushed off the roof of a twelve story condominium building surrounded by concrete slabs, but if I had to guess, this is strikingly similar to how the aftermath would feel.
I should also mention that my mind is completely fried, and I'm not sure that I'll ever be funny again. We'll see.
Unfortunately, my sense of humor has been replaced with a dreadful dose of crankiness. I have been temporarily transformed into the biz-nitchy neighbor who lets her dog poop in the middle of the sidewalk, doesn't even think about picking it up*, and spends twenty-three hours a day wearing pink curlers and a ratty-old, terrycloth bathrobe.
For example, last night, when he refused my order to fetch the remote, I called Jared a "flaming bag of hooker poop." As creative as that line may be, it's really very mean. Thankfully, he laughed and thought that I was kidding. Unfortunately, I was not. And now I'm just ashamed.
Hopefully I'll be back to my normal old self by tomorrow. After all, we're moving across the country next week, and I should be packing right now. So far, I've managed to pack six cotton balls, one package of mechanical pencils, and two hooded sweatshirts. I've really got to pick up the pace.
*I would never actually leave a poo on the sidewalk. I pride myself on being the very best pooper scooper in this whole dang neighborhood.