Stung, Steel, and swimming

Sunday started out as one of those days. I woke up early, went downstairs to play with the puppy, was sort of enjoying throwing the ball around, and then squish. Stepped right in a pile of dog poop. A freshie, at that. Couldn't have been more than five minutes old. Smelled great. I washed off my foot and my shoe, found my spirit somehow, and then got in the car with Tim, headed for another fun-filled day of moving steel. And then a bee flew in the window, landed on my upper thigh, and stung me. We were driving and I was confused about what just happened until the searing pain began and I realized that wow, that was a bee. And it just stung me. And it hurts really bad. (I'd like you to know that yes, the stinger is still lodged deep in my upper thigh, despite all my attempts to remove it. And yes, it is Tuesday.)

Later that day. The stinging was only mild but the fact that it was 98 degrees and humid coupled by the fact that we were standing right in the light of the sun put me in a miserable mood. I admit it. I was hating life. Oh yeah, I should probably also mention that we were lifting these giant steel beams off the ground and loading them onto that blue machine and then drilling them into the cross beams of the roof.

And by lifting, I am semi-proud to say that I actually was lifting those giant beams over my head to put them on the blue machine. With each lift, I inadvertently let out a tennis player-like grunt but I was still proud of myself anyway. Unfortunately, these little triumphs weren't enough to occupy my speedy little mind and as I was lifting and grunting and watching Tim drill those bolts into steel (which is LOUD), I went into some dark places....

DREAMY WAYNE'S WORLD DISSOLVE DOODILY DOOT, DOODILY DOOT, DOODILY DOOT....

What am I doing here? Why am I lifting steel on a scorching hot summer's day? This isn't me. I don't belong here. I am a thinker, not a construction worker. Not that there is anything wrong with being a construction worker, but look at me! That's not me. I'm a weak girl with soft legs and a bad back. When God or whatever you believe in created me, he did not say "this one is going to be a laborer." No, he did not. He or she put some sort of sticker on my head along the lines of "writer", "artist", or "girly girl". "Manly lifting machine" didn't even get a second glance from ol' G.O.D.....

panic!!!! I can't do this for the rest of my life. How do I tell Tim? He will be so disappointed in me and my laziness. He works so hard and here I am, complaining in my head when it gets a little bit hard. He does this stuff all the time and never complains. He is a saint. That's it, plain and simple. And I am just a mere mortal, resigned to bitterness and anger at the sun and the humidity. Did I learn nothing in all those yoga classes? Ommm, find your zen. Om, live in the moment. Enjoy the moment. Ohmygod, that is just not working. I fucking hate you, yoga and zen and Buddha and wind chimes and dreamcatchers. I will never be able to enjoy this torture. It's torture. That is the only apt word to describe this horror. TORTURE.

DOODILY DOOT, DOODILY DOOT, DOODILY DOOT

And then there is Tim, gruffly yelling at me to move the P-9 beams out of the way. And yep, I admit it, I lost it and had to walk away. I finally collected my nerve and admitted that I was having a horrible, horrible time. He was like, yeah, it's really hot. Why don't we call it a day and go swimming? The greatest feeling of relief I have ever felt washed over me in that moment. But then I felt guilty because it would put us behind schedule but he said, look. It's not worth killing yourself. Let's just call it a day. So we set his father, the other indentured servant, free and we went swimming with the dog in the Delaware River. Even though we cut our work day short, I had much more fun swimming and I think that maybe it was necessary. This project may never get finished and it is possibly my fault, but I think we need to take a swim every once in a while.