So, I worked at my new library job last week, full days both Thursday and Saturday. The job basically entails a lot of shelving of books, moving of books, and not thinking too much about anything except barcodes, the Dewey Decimal system, and whether 906.1782346879 BLS comes before or after WHO GIVES A CRAP. You can pretty much say the job is a little mind numbing, but only in a good way.
Seriously, though, libraries all over the world owe everything to pages (which is what my official title is, which is also a little funny because I'm a page at a library -- get it?). Without us, books and magazines would be strewn pell mell throughout the library, reference books on Floor 1 instead of Floor 3, and (god forbid) mysteries shoved with romance novels.
Working Thursday wasn't too bad, although by closing time, I was tired. And happy. Because yo! I am no longer just a burdensome sponge on the counter I call my husband, sullenly soaking up every little bit of kindness the poor man has left in him. No, I am now making some serious coin, dudes. 'Serious', as in, I can now almost pay for the groceries for two days a month. YESSSS!!
Saturday was another story, however. It started off on a bad note, with my head almost exploding and throwing mounds of brain matter all over the carpet (only figuratively speaking, folks). My sinus infection was back with a vengeance, so I had to work with a headache from the devil himself. I popped extra strength tylenols all day long, which is quite possibly why today's library patrons may not find any of the books they're looking for. Not my problem: I don't go back until Thursday.
The other problem I had on Saturday was the rest of my body. It decided that, although I managed just fine on Thursday with the bending and the stretching and the pushing and the pulling, Saturday was not going to be such a day. In fact, Saturday turned out to be The Day Mary Turned 178. Guys, by the time I was slated to go home, I could barely walk to the car, and I am not exaggerating. Not even a little. I was so sore and tired that I should have just called 9-1-1 because I am sure I was a lot sicker than 90 per cent of the people at the hospital at that time. THAT'S how bad I felt.
I came home, moaning softly the whole way, lay down on the couch, and did not move (not even twitching an eyelid) for three hours. My entire body felt as if a very large, very heavy, very unforgiving machine trampled over it, back and forth, for nine hours straight. Every single joint hurt, every muscle was strained. Even the hairs in the crook of my elbow were crying.
Mr. Handsome made dinner, I made it to the table to eat, and then I lay down again. The only time I moved was to go to bed, which I did pretty soon after.
And that was when I decided that I'm an old bag, ready for the nursing home. It was also then that it dawned on me that I must be crazy, trying to get into the nursing program at university. WHAT AM I THINKING, people?! I must be insane. Because if I can't even manage to shelve books for 8 hours, how in god's name am I going to save lives for 12 hours?! Please, someone, tell me. Because at this moment, I'm thinking I might as well just apply at all the funeral homes for a job, because my time is coming fast.
There can be no other reason for feeling the way I was feeling on Saturday. Age is it. No argument, no excuses. And then, of course, my mind started to weave through manic thoughts at a frightening pace, thinking about how awful life was going to obviously get from here on out, because if I felt like that, I'd clearly feel twice as bad in a few years. And twice as bad = dead.
So, instead of taking it easy, I instead accepted a second job to take up the rest of the time I apparently have so much of.
To be continued ....