I’m sore.  I mean my muscles are sore, not my temper.  Well, that’s a bit cranky, too, but I’ll get to that later.  Right now I want to moan about my sore muscles.  On Monday I started a new exercise program.  Let’s just say I’ve used some muscles that I haven’t used a lot lately.  I didn’t know I hadn’t used them, but now they’re telling me that they would rather be left alone.  I get that.  Being forced to do things  you’re not used to doing sucks.  At least it does if you’re a muscle.  I’ve been doing this gym caper for a few months now, along with the three-days-a-week swimming I’ve been doing for years, and it was time for a new program.  When I was asked what I wanted to work on, I said “my legs and my butt,” so that’s what I got.  And I can tell you, it’s working!  If complaining muscles means they are being challenged, then I’m on target.

When people say  they are working out, or running, or whatever “to get fit,” I always want to ask, “Fit for what?”  Mind you, I don’t usually ask it, but I am tempted.  In my case my goal is more specific:  I’d like to be able to rise from my chair gracefully, without grunting.  Is that too much to ask?  There are other benefits, of course, like strengthening the left calf muscles (The operative word here is ‘left’–I’m trying to recover what’s left of the muscles in my left leg.)  Anyway, progress is being made, and I’m now becoming re-acquainted with some of my long-forgotten muscles.

Now on to the other reason I’m sore.  Sore as in annoyed, cranky, irritated, grumpy, disgusted, and thoroughly pissed off.  My kitchen and dining room area has been like a bomb site for several days.  I’m in the throes of doing some major picture-framing jobs.  Lots of framing–repairing and making new frames.  I love it, but I’m getting tired of the mess.

But why am I in the kitchen/dining room, I hear you ask.  Well, because the workshop is a mess, the utility room is a mess, I like the light in the kitchen/dining room, and it’s close to the refrigerator.

But that’s not the problem.  On Tuesday afternoon I ordered four pieces of glass for some new frames, to be picked up Wednesday after my workout.  I completely forgot to stop and pick it up on my way home, so had to make another trip.  Okay; not a drama.  But when I got them home I discovered that not one of them, Not One Of Them, is the correct size.  They aren’t off by a mm or two–they don’t vaguely match the dimensions I ordered.  It’s as if I got the wrong order.  Maybe I did, but I doubt it.  So now I have to take the damn glass back and start over.  I could understand a small error in maybe one of the sheets, but to have all four totally unrelated to any  measurements requested…that is just plain bizarre.  Okay.  I’m through whingeing.

On a brighter note, this is what greeted me when I opened my eyes this morning.  So I’ll stop complaining.             MM