I have a minivan full of fresh-clipped wool.
Yet the pounds of wool per acre on my pasture remains as high as ever; none of the shearing was done on my own flock. I’m about a third into my gig as shearer-for-hire, having started with the relieving of nine lovely ewes of their wool baggage on Saturday. On Sunday, I employed a “hair of the dog” strategy and thought I’d throw in another sheep, to perhaps mitigate the growing stiffness and aches that were starting to shout my body’s protest of this amazingly strenuous activity. Maybe limbering up with just one more would mean less of a debilitating recovery the next day?
I can barely walk today. The transition from sitting to standing — that casual movement one makes a million times a day without even noticing — is excruciating. Please don’t ask me to bend over and pick up something off the floor. It is hard to make it to the phone in time to keep the call from going to voice mail. I have fired up our imaginary hot tub no less than a dozen times. In my mind. Which doesn’t help.
But it’s exhilarating. I have muscles! (lots of them now, by the feel of things) I am alive!
And I have a lot of wool. Hot damn.