Happy Monday, Hive! I hope your weekend was significantly more relaxing and vastly less physically destructive than mine.
Here in Belgium, last Friday was the first of May. For the uninitiated, this is an official national holiday: Labor Day. Logically speaking, the entire premise of Labor Day is to celebrate the concept of work by absolutely, unequivocally not working. It is a beautiful, nationally mandated paradox. However, I decided to take the name of the holiday a bit too literally. I didn’t clock in for my actual boss, but I certainly clocked in for the most demanding supervisor of all: home maintenance. Let me take you on a journey through a weekend that has left me questioning my life choices and my physical limitations.
The festivities began on Friday morning. Right behind our garden lies a picturesque meadow. It is lovely, except for the part right up against our fence, which is perpetually guarded by a hostile army of stinging nettles. Twice a year, I transform into a reluctant gladiator. I strap on a heavy-duty, electric-powered brush cutter and march into the meadow to clear a five-to-ten-meter demilitarized zone. Because I suffer from a chronic case of being a good neighbor, I also clear the fence line for the retired couple next door. All in all, it’s a solid three hours of swinging a roaring, vibrating machine of destruction.
Now, Friday was a gorgeous, warm day. A normal person would wear shorts and a t-shirt. Not me. I was dressed like I was preparing for a winter expedition to the Arctic. Why? Because a few years ago, I was bitten by a tick carrying Lyme disease. We caught it early, and a heavy dose of antibiotics saved the day, but I have zero intention of playing Russian roulette with Belgian arachnids ever again.
So, picture this: I am sweltering in full-body armor, sweat blinding me, doing battle with nature. By the time I powered down the machine three hours later, my arms were vibrating so intensely from the engine that I literally needed two hands to guide a glass of water to my mouth without chipping a tooth. I was exhausted, but victorious.
Just as I was fantasizing about a cold shower and a long nap, the universe intervened. Earlier that morning, my parents—who are approaching the respectable age of eighty—had asked if I could help them fetch some wooden panels from the DIY store using my trailer. The negotiation was simple: "Today or Saturday?" Given my impending battle with the nettles, I explicitly said, "Let's do it on Saturday."
Parents, however, possess a magical selective hearing apparatus. I finished mowing, checked my phone, and saw a missed call from my mother. They were already at the DIY store. They had attempted a rogue extraction mission and suddenly realized that six massive wooden panels (measuring 2.5 meters by 0.5 meters) do not, contrary to their optimistic beliefs, fit into a standard passenger car. Shocker, I know.
With my arms still feeling like overcooked spaghetti, I hooked up the trailer, drove over, and rescued them. I brought all the panels to their house, which is when the horrifying reality set in: these panels needed to go down into the cellar. I love my parents deeply, but there was no way I was letting two octogenarians lug heavy timber down a flight of stairs.
So, I dragged every single panel down to the cellar by myself. I was happy to help, but I did have to set a boundary. I gave them a very loving, yet breathless, lecture: "I will always help you, but next time, don't pretend Saturday is fine and then attempt a secret ninja mission on Friday. Just tell me you want it done right now!"
Friday evening featured an 18th birthday party. My wife had her bi-monthly family card game, so I decided to be the responsible, environmentally conscious adult and take my bicycle to the party. The plan was flawless: drop in, say happy birthday, have a drink, and leave early. I arrived at 20:45.
My wife eventually joined the party around 01:00 AM. And then... a temporal anomaly occurred. Time simply evaporated. Suddenly, I blinked, and it was 03:30 in the morning. Realizing I was tired and entirely too "festive" to operate a two-wheeled vehicle, my wife drove us home and left the bike behind.
The universe did not appreciate this. On Sunday, I had to walk back and retrieve my abandoned bicycle in the middle of a torrential downpour. Instant karma is real, folks.
If you thought Saturday would offer a reprieve, you are sorely mistaken. By 11:00 AM, I had already mowed both the front and back lawns. But the true centerpiece of the weekend was yet to come.
Next to the stone carpet by our outdoor lounge, we have a small trench. For years, we’ve talked about filling it with decorative gravel. Saturday was the day the talking stopped. We went to the hardware store and found the exact pebbles my wife wanted. We calculated we needed roughly 700 kilograms of the stuff. The store, in its infinite wisdom, only sold it in 20-kilogram bags.
Let me break down the Sisyphean nightmare of this logistical process:
Pull 10 heavy bags off the store shelf and load them onto a flatbed cart.
Drag the cart to the cash register and pay.
Drag the cart out to the parking lot.
Deadlift the bags from the cart into the trunk of the car.
Drive home, praying for the car's suspension.
Unload the bags from the car into a wheelbarrow.
Push the wheelbarrow to the backyard, unload the bags, and spread the gravel.
I did this in batches of 10 bags (200kg) at a time. After the first run, I went back for a second. Then a third. By the time I was wrestling the 25th bag into the trunk, my muscles had stopped working, and I was lifting purely out of spite and sheer willpower. We survived, and it looks fantastic, but it cost me a piece of my soul.
Saturday evening rolled around, and my oldest son was scheduled to return from a school trip to London. The school had organized two buses to pick the kids up from the train station in Brussels and bring them back to our local school.
At 23:30, as my eyes were practically taped open, my phone buzzed. One bus had broken down, and the other was massively delayed by traffic.
At 23:45, a follow-up message: "Can you come pick him up in Leuven?"
Leuven is a 50-minute drive from our house. The school had realized the second bus driver was about to hit his legally mandated maximum driving hours and needed to rest. So, half the kids were stranded, waiting for alternative transport. I dragged my shattered body into the car, drove to Leuven, picked up my son and three of his friends, and played "Taxi Dad" deep into the night. It was absolutely the right call, but man, I was tired.
The Aftermath
Sunday was uneventful, mostly because my body refused to function.
I am currently experiencing a fascinating biological phenomenon. I have "Friday Pain" (shoulders and arms from the brush cutter and the wooden panels) and "Saturday Pain" (lower back and legs from the 700 kilos of gravel). It is a beautiful symphony of agony across two entirely different muscle groups!
Today is Monday, meaning it is officially Day Two of the Saturday Pain. If you need me, I will be moving at the speed of a heavily medicated sloth. Work hard, play hard... and then spend the rest of the week recovering.
Cheers,
Peter
