Sore Muscles

I really have to get out of the flea market business. After spending 2+ hours yesterday packing and lifting boxes of glass, china, etc. to empty out my flea market tables and then tote the same boxes down to my basement, my arms and legs are screaming, "We're 68 years old! What the hell are you doing to us?".

My muscles are right. I need to give myself a shake and stop pushing my strength to do things that aren't necessary and running a couple of flea market tables is certainly not necessary for my livelihood. My family, which has been so darned supportive in helping me with the flea market, has also been telling me for a couple of years that I should have a giant yard sale and scale back a bit on my stock. They are right, too. I seem to be the only one who is running around with her head in the clouds.

I know why I'm like this. For way too many years I had no true life of my own and once I got one, I took off like a rocket. And, like a rocket, I swerve and soar in every direction with no actual control. My poor, sore muscles are now asserting their dominance and I just might have to pay attention.

Sitting prettily in the wings is my new and lightweight interest, jewellery. You see, age and frailty is no reason to give up completely. You just need to soar in a new direction and maybe a little closer to the ground.