Pedaling, stepping, falling.

Did some work from home this afternoon. My roofdeck plants are doing really well. With dinner, I had a beer that tasted like DEET and campfires (warning: stay away from cask conditioned ginger porter, even if you like cask conditioned beers, ginger, and porter; even if you trust the folks at Buk’s; even if you’re feeling adventurous). Afterwards, I headed to Brookline for boat work, where I spent a lot of time holding a drill with a wire brush attachment against seams in the floor pan which will soon be welded. I am certain that, in my Pistol Parlor t-shirt, work gloves, and safety goggles, I looked awesome. I biked back home, stopping at the HX for some digital versatile discs. I showered to wash off all the dirt and grime and bits of paint and metal, then finally wrote one of the many letters I owe friends. I did some mending, some laundry; I talked to my folks. I am now definitely going to sleep. The daily bike rides to Brookline are keeping me pleasantly sore: than feeling like you’re working hard, exercising your body, being physical for a change. Also, the unparalleled relief (and I mean relief in both senses — hard work has cast it in sharp relief as well) of two very underrated everyday things: stepping into the shower, and falling into bed.
Time for the latter.


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