This madness must stop. I'm bent over like a crone and my arms look like I've been the victim of a botched "death of a thousand cuts" attack. It began so innocently yesterday morning as I took my walk-around, planning the day before starting chores. I strolled up a section of the driveway that is somewhat hidden from everyday view by the drooping branches of the live oak and saw all the dead weeds from last summer. (Oh, who am I kidding? Some of that section has never been weeded.) Having a few minutes before heading to the barn, I cleaned up a small square. Later in the warm early afternoon, enjoying the look of the cleared walkway, I thought I might go pick a few more weeds...at least get a good start while the weather held. I became a woman in the grip of obsession, marching down the line like Grant through Richmond or Sherman to the sea. The dead, stiff, three-foot stems of the St. John's wort had to be broken off at ground level and they snapped back on my forearms, which soon ran red. Just another three feet and I'll quit. I swear, just another four feet and I'll quit. By sundown, I couldn't stand up straight, blood was staining my gloves, and Bess had given up hope, but by golly I'd cleared the entire hundred-by-twenty-foot section. There are seven huge stacks of weeds by the drive; nothing on earth could have forced me to haul them to the burn pile last night. Bessie Anne ran ahead and I hobbled behind her back to the house just before dark. A bowl of oatmeal was the best I could manage for dinner.
The 2012 NASCAR season starts this weekend. Gee, I guess I'll have to stay in my chair for that, loyal fan that I am. Further spring cleaning will just have to wait. I'll go milk the goats this morning as soon as my stiff, cramped fingers uncurl.