Clearly, I don't have enough to fret about, so the Fates have decided to pull a muscle in my back. Now I am hobbling around the house like a poorly designed robot, and Tom had to spend his last free day at home mowing all of the grass that I am unable to mow. Why did this even happen? I have strong muscles in my back, and I was lifting a small light cardboard box out of a hatchback--i.e., I was barely bending over to do an undemanding task. But as a result of this stupid injury, I have to deal with sympathetic remarks from my son such as "Do you feel old?"
The temperature is supposed to climb to 80 degrees today, and I will not be weeding or mowing or carrying a laundry basket. However, I can still edit manuscripts and bake bread and teach poetry to middle schoolers. And I'm determined to be cheerful. My gait may resemble the Ancient Mariner's, but I refuse to be a crabby old lady.