I went on a bender today and no liquids were involved except water from the hose. I bent to the ground over a million times—picking up stuff for the annual burn pile. Once or twice a year my husband and I gather logs, brush, weeds, sticks, dead snails and letters from the IRS and create a pile of stuff in the back yard a wee bit taller than our house. Add gasoline to the recipe and poof, we have lift-off. Not really, but my face looks well-done and my hair is still smoking.
So I’m guarding the fire all day, adding stuff to it, moving it around and blinking smoke out of my eyes while Art is driving his tractor-mower in circles all over the property like a kid learning to drive--learning to drive over the top of my daffodils, through the fence, into a lamp post, back up to the garden and through the tulips.
All that while I bend like a wooden puppet, picking up branches and weeds until all fluids have drained into the top of my brain cavity and standing up straight makes me dizzy. Could be worse—could live on the east coast and dig snow all day.