I had to do two things this weekend: Yard work and writing.
The first got done, which is no easy feat. I have an enormous yard on a slope and my riding mower crapped out on me so I was using a push mower – and not one of those nice self-propelled jobs, either. This was a few hours of solid cardio with extended arm workout.
And when it was all done and I took a nice, cool shower, poured myself some iced tea and fired up the laptop, I discovered that my arms felt like spaghetti and my hands were so cramped it was like trying to type with eagle talons.
I think it’s time for me to hire some shirtless lawn boys. Now, would that be tax-deductible? Since I’m a writer, I mean? It’s really kind of a necessity. For…health reasons. Think of all the benefits to my circulatory system when I watch them through the window!
Then again, if I’m watching shirtless lawn boys, I’m probably not writing, but pretending to. I’ll have to meditate on this one while I sit on the heating pad and wait for the Advil to work.
But I really am leaning toward the lawn boy thing. A writer should suffer for her art, but not this badly.