Imagine newspapers, fabric, bottles of screening ink, plastic tubs of cottage cheese [for mixing ink], and tailor's chalk strewn around the floor, cardboard boxes spewing out fabric with a track bike wedged into a corner and you have an idea of what my room currently looks like.
Needless to say, it's a mess [no, I'm not posting pictures of it]. Any ordinary person would probably think I've completely lost it. And sometimes I think I might have as well.
After spending most of the day [unforeseen circumstances dictated that I got the day off] alternating between screening, cutting, hopping between laid out fabric, and sewing, my shoulders were sufficiently cramped to allow for a break. Observing the destruction wrought in my room, and some mostly complete hats, I took a breather to pat myself on the back. I've been productive today, I thought.
And there was only so much I could do; the bigger box of fabric from NYC hadn't arrived yet. Thank God. I can blow off certain projects for a few--
And then the doorbell rang.
Yup. That box came.
So it was back to work, hands sometimes covered in ink, other times finagling fabric under the foot of my sewing machine. My trash can filled up over the course of the day to the point where it was vomiting out slivers of fabric, pieces of thread, elastic, and all the bits and pieces associated with crafting. Pushing my machine to work harder and faster, I almost didn't feel guilty about wimping out on my ride.
Okay, I admit, I did a mere 6 miles today. I know. The guilt. But if it makes it any better, my knee was stiff by the time I called it a day and took my foot off the [sewing machine] pedal. My shoulders were feeling it too, and even my fingers were a little tired [although, that could be the endless gchatting].
Finally extracting myself from the hat factory [i.e., my desk], I stretched my fingers while thinking about my next ride, slightly dreading those hills. And that's when I noticed it. Despite the layers of sun screen I pour onto my arms before rides, I'm officially rocking the hood tan. My thumbs and forefingers are a noticeably darker shade than my other fingers. Great.
At this point, the only thing that's going to save me is an airbrush tan. Although, I suppose this is another badge of [cyclist] pride.