This is fabulous, of course, but I'm nowhere near ready, so seized the opportunity today to locate the box with the Christmas wrapping bags and stockings in it, which I stored under several boxes in a corner of our bedroom. My rationale was that, instead of having to retrieve it from our storage locker, it would be more accessible.
I hadn't factored in the possibility of a fall, and the consequent pain and fatigue. Oh, I'm getting better. By centimetres. I find that every time I tackle a project requiring actual energy, I'm reduced to a quivering mass in less time than it takes to accomplish the task. This is a heckuva problem, considering Christmas is coming, and this requires finishing gift-shopping, wrapping said gifts, preparing Christmas tourtières, and cleaning the damn house.
It's still a shock when the fatigue wipes me out like a chalk drawing. It's a bit like being pregnant again. To what am I giving birth? (I have a nasty feeling it's a much older version of myself.)
Meanwhile, the Resident Fan Boy has noticed more people are asking him to speak up. He didn't think much of it until younger daughter, who has the hearing of a fruit bat, and can hear what we say from her bedroom with the door closed and our television on - particularly when we're discussing her - also starting asking him to speak up. His fellow cathedral volunteers opine that this is wide-spread, and a result of a combination of isolation and ZOOM meetings.
I guess that, along with everything else, our diaphragms are atrophying from not having to talk boisterously to one another out of doors.
No wonder I find the cyclists at the coffee shop so loud and obnoxious.
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