"It's a good tired"....I've decided that's code for "I'm bone weary, tired to my very core, but I can't complain about it because it's from doing something I a)love to do, or b)chose to do." Either way, "good tired" translates into "the kind of tired that makes you collapse into bed at night, oblivious to everything; not even rousable by crying cat or crowing rooster." That's how I felt yesterday. I was so beat I could barely lift my arms. Not sore, mind you, just absolutely wrecked.
Wednesday, in a fit of unprecedented productiveness, I moved furniture. A lot of it. And it was all big. Those of you who know us, know that we have a lot of crap. We have furniture enough to fill two modestly sized homes (which we just finished doing), and now we're trying to find a way to cram it all into one small home. So, I pushed and pulled and tugged and lifted and cursed and sweated it all into some semblance of order. The living room looks like a living room...albeit, a very crowded living room, but a living room nonetheless. The tv is where a tv should go, sofa where a sofa should go, bookshelves in the proper place, recliner shoved into a corner, weird fold-out sofa thing my old man's folks gave us crammed into another corner...all is as it should be if it were a much larger room. But it's cool. We just need to do a little more purging. And until then, we're stepping over stuff.
Yesterday, upon waking and realizing that I was experiencing "good tired", I promptly went to the porch to drink coffee and watch the sun rise. It was still dark out and the crickets and peepers were all chattering to one another about their nights. The birds were waking and calling good morning to their neighbors. I could hear a donkey in the distance, braying his disapproval at having his sleep disrupted by the many, many roosters you can hear anytime after four a.m. (including mine, but Leon is awesome, so he can cockadoodle doo to his heart's content). You know what I didn't hear? Cars. Sirens. Horns. People.
It was a good morning.