Tuesday morning came much too soon for my feet. By Monday evening (we gave up at about 10:00 pm) my shoes were torn up by the shovel (these were my good running shoes until last week), my back and shoulder had been defeated by the wheelbarrow, and my arches were randomly shooting pain. All things considered I was doing marvelous since I was still able to stand, walk, and yield a shovel (my favorite of the three choices is the shovel, don't worry). My knight in shining armor had allowed me to throw dirt at my nemesis and then he took it away for me. There was only half a trench that still needed dirt removal. I had felt guilty for not running on Monday so I ran 2.5 miles on the treadmill and was doing really well. I headed back outside to remove the dirt from this last trench and to face my nemesis once again. My feet screamed at me for jumping on the shovel. I tend to put up with a good share of screaming sometimes, so I told my feet (in my most motherly and patient voice) that when they were ready to talk nice I would be ready to listen to them and carried on. They didn't talk nice, so I didn't listen. About an hour in to this digging I realized that my feet were no longer screaming at me and I had successfully wheeled the wheelbarrow multiple times. I honestly believe my feet knew they couldn't conquer me (and my most motherly and patient voice) and therefore they redirected their efforts toward the wheelbarrow who scampered away with its tail between its legs. I honestly have no other explanation for what happened this day. I felt fine and was using a wheelbarrow successfully for the first time in my life. All it takes is not filling it so full and letting your screaming feet scare it into submission!!
This is what the yard looked like on Tuesday--still a disaster.
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