Time to loosen everything and relax, finally. I'm shedding pieces of tonight's costume, and wondering how I ever tolerated dressing like this on a regular basis. Tonight was a themed party, a Back to the 80s bowling event. How sad is it that I managed to get an accurate costume using only clothes and accessories in my current wardrobe? Yes, I had a shocking pink, wide necked shirt (all the better to expose one shoulder) and vivid yellow pedal pushers just hanging around, waiting to be paired with each other in neon glory. Throw in a triple strand of lemon yellow pearls (yes, fake) and a side pony, and I was good. Now, gathering enough courage to get out of the car at a crowded bowling alley was another problem altogether.
Knowing that I was going to attempt to bowl for the first time in years, I was in perfect agreement when Bones suggested it was time to split the needling effort between both legs. I can say truthfully I had no idea it would be quite so intense, nor so difficult to recover afterwards. Both calves were terrifically reactive, and it was all I could do to put my feet on the ground to reach for my discarded shoes. Driving home was challenging. It's now twelve hours later, and I am exquisitely aware of having been stabbed in the back of both legs. I hope tomorrow is better. It's already time to mow again.
Before we headed home, we stopped off to give a hand to a friend who had enough of her rental situation, who is transferring to a house on my side of town. She was almost done moving, and had just a few heavy things she needed a hand with. I am amazed that she had the presence of mind to be charming and joyful at our bowling event. I get so stressed out by moving, especially the stage where she's at now, with less than 24 hours before her old townhouse had to be completely cleaned out, and loose items still spread out over the ground floor. When I get to that point in a move, I feel every word I utter, every decision I make, washing like a painful wave of stress hormones through my face. I have moved so often, that even just being near someone who is in the throes of a move brings back vivid memories of that sensation. I poured a hefty glass of sweet liqueur when I got home, and I raise my glass in honor of her ordeal. Glad it's not me, friend. Not this year. I was glad to help her out, but I was okay with it when our usefulness ended and we were able to split and go home.
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