the price of small chores

Yesterday was a day of doing. Today is a day of paying the price.

The front stoop, whose black paint was flaking and peeling, got scraped and repainted. I did half and, much to my delight, my younger son did the rest. Then the same son roped in a friend and they stacked the fire wood that was piled in the driveway.

Since I do few Mr. Fixit chores any more, the painting part seemed a simple task. And it was ... but it did not account for my weaknesses, which, these days, are stronger than my strengths. Today I ache all over and probably will for a while. I had tried to make a bargain with my inabilities -- I'll just do a little now and then -- and the inabilities replied, "Sorry -- no deal."

Well, the stoop has a refreshed look and my wife got some impatiens for the flower cups built into the concrete ... pink ... which will look nice against the black paint. But in the meantime, my pain pills have gone missing and I could use one. I guess I'll practice being content with the sort of joke passed along in email yesterday:

Three old Indian women were discussing the travails of getting older.

Mvskoke woman said, "Sometimes I catch myself with a jar of mayonnaise in my hand, while standing in front of the refrigerator, and I can't remember whether I need to put it away, or start making a sandwich."

Seminole woman chimed in with, "Yes, sometimes I find myself on the landing of the stairs and can't remember whether I was on my way up or on my way down."

Cherokee woman responded, " Well, ladies, I'm glad I don't have that problem. Knock on wood," as she rapped her knuckles on the table, and then said, "That must be the door, I'll get it!"

I don't mind being a wimp; I just don't like being reminded.