Blinding force
Tonight, readers, I stared adversity in the face and emerged the victor.
Adversity in this case was the grueling task of installing a curtain rod in my bedroom. Before you smirk and think, "God, what a moron," you should know that I don't have a whole lot of tools in my tool box (this is NOT a metaphor). Even the simplest home improvement chores are much, much more challenging in the absence of a drill, I'll have you know. It takes a fair amount of dexterity, strength and sheer will (and in my case, balance, because I don't have a real chair, only a piano stool on wheels) to get those maddening plastic wall plugs into the sheetrock without a drill. And it takes a fair amount of precision with the hammer to get said wall plugs flush to the wall without mangling the damned things. It also takes faith that your neighbors won't hate you forever for doing this at 1:45 a.m. (I did keep the hammering to a minimum; nevertheless, please forgive me, neighbors.)
Why did I have to do this tonight? Because I cannot, cannot stand another morning without my blackout curtains, the saving grace of many a night worker. My bedroom has an eastern exposure, and each morning at about 8 or 9 a.m. -- about four or five hours after I've fallen asleep -- the sun comes screaming through the cheap, single-pane windows. It's blinding, and it's miserably hot. I throw the covers off, remove clothing as necessary, search for a cool spot on the pillow and squeeze my eyes shut against the penetrating glare, desperately hoping that fatigue will trump discomfort. It rarely does. I often can't fall back asleep until 11 or so, if at all, and while I can and often do perform perfectly well on inadequate sleep, I hate the way it makes me feel, especially when it's so damned hot upstairs that I have to take a cold shower to feel even halfway comfortable when I emerge from the bathroom.
Anyway, after a lot of cursing and perspiring, I got my ugly but serviceable curtains hung, and I'm most pleased. I'm also most grateful no one was here to witness my struggle, for I'm sure it wasn't pretty to behold. Comical, yes. Graceful? No.
