I just had a massage.
Ok, well not JUST maybe. Like a couple of hours ago. The warm fuzzy feeling is gone, but the rumpled hair remains. And now my muscles are complaining as they adjust themselves back into the original (unhealthy) positions they are accustomed to holding.
I have been working pretty hard these past few weeks, jacking and leveling cabins, building big things, lifting and toting and climbing and crawling. Today, I tore out some back steps and the skirting around a mud room so I could replace the rotted skirt and re-route the dryer vent so we won't have to do this again right away. I spent a fair amount of my time on my back, under the mud room, swearing and banging my elbows and knees and head and cursing the crushed rock on which I was laying.
So I've been sore for a while. I suppose it is not really a surprise. I am in my 40s but working like I'm still 20, but with better carpentry skills. The masseuse was so kind.
"You're a mess," she said.
Lovely gal. So kind. So thoughtful. So diplomatic.
But she's right. I was a mess. And I still am, in large part, because a 30-minute massage was not even going to come close to addressing the needs my muscles have.
And now I am one hurting unit. I got just enough to know what comfort could feel like, but not enough to hang onto it for more than an hour or two. I have been working too hard after too much time sitting like a lump, and both of those things are now taking their toll.
Uf-da. As they say in Minnesota. Good god.
My next appointment is not until mid-June, but I am looking forward to it. I have already booked a full hour. I am going to try to plan ahead and investigate whether I should take a bubble in my friend's spa before or after the massage. Before, I think, but we'll see. In the meantime, I will be counting down the days, and keeping track of the aches and pains.