If my body calls – and it might – I think you should ignore it.
Lord knows I have.
I work too hard. Have I mentioned that before? I’m willing to bet I have: I’ll bet I’ve written about it previously – seems I take a perverse pride in it – not to mention that I suspect I repeat myself.
There’s a price to pay when you work too much.
I’ve developed carpal body syndrome.
I mean, sure. It started in my wrists, of course. After a good 30 years of typing – 30 years more than this particular monkey was designed for – carpal tunnel was probably in my immediate future anyway.
But the whole dang body?
Mary and I cleaned a 5300 square-foot house in 20 hours this weekend. I can’t speak for her, but every muscle in my body is pissed at me right now; I’ve found bits of plaster in my hair; I’ve worn my right thumbnail down to the quick scratching paint off the wood floors; and to top it off the owner tells us to send him an invoice for the work done.
I don’t like the sound of that. Who sends invoices? Wasn’t I clear about my preference for cash money, under-the-table work?
You’d think I’d be exhausted. And you’d be right. But I’m almost too tired to sleep, although I have caught myself staring straight ahead for long periods of time without blinking.
Which is kind of like sleeping, right?
Tonight? A little TV, a hot bath, the three beers in the fridge, and if I’m feeling really crazy I’ll tap into that last swig cough syrup that’s been sitting in the medicine cabinet since December.
‘Cause not only do I know how to work on a Saturday, I know how to party on a Saturday night.
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