The desk has been stained.  I think if I did it again I would do it with the knowledge I have now, having done it, and it would turn out better, but I couldn’t have so I am satisfied enough with the mildly haphazard sangria-hued stain.  Even with the heavier marks that created because I am too short to reach all the way across in one go.   So, once we get some polyurethane on there, it’ll be ready for me to start being a human and using a desk rather than a lap for the business of being on a computer all the live long day.

I am appreciative of the help I got.  It is the nature of the beast that the first time you do something – you’re going to be a little bit awkward at it, but sometimes I feel like there’s two whole different things between wanting some general guidelines and guidance to start and this sense of, oh, why would you do this if you’re not going to do it right.  I just wanted this desk to have some character and if my brush marks and stain….stains in some way can provide that, well, I’m fine with it.  Whatever happens with that desk when I’m done with it – I imagine it will have water marks and scuffs and dings and it will be faded and have soaked up whatever a thing soaks up when it is useful and loved for many years – well, they’ll see that I tried to make a thing mine, for better or worse.

Day three of the four day adventure.   Feeling both necessarily divorced from the upset that has invaded my head (but is, ultimately, nothing to do with me) and a little bit more in my body than I might expect for being told that I have four consecutive days to hide away and play pretend.

I am realizing that this is the longest it’s been for a while without the gung-ho, time to diet force rolling out the red carpet for itself and marching in, taking up residence in my head (as they work on the never yet achieved descent into my heart).  I know it is coming because my body feels tired and gross and tired of all the gross things, but I don’t know.  I am so plugged up mentally.  Even writing this down feels both as a positive sign that maybe that particular bee has found its way back into my bonnet, and an equally negative sign that if I really felt a compelling interest, I would do something and I would be talking about having done it.

Of course, I remember that when you were a part of the thinking, when you were a part of the scales that needed balancing, it was far too late to correct what ended up (or not, we’ll never know) being the thing that destroyed our good shot.  If I could get my weight and body and food together, maybe when I am brave again it will be different.  These are the shitty things I’m thinking tonight, surrounded by plates and odd energies.


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