This lack of energy (which helps aid said crankiness) is a classic fibromyalgia symptom. It reminds me of having the flu in that the first five minutes of every time I awaken I have a small amount of energy. I’m usually trying to cram everything and the kitchen sink into that five minutes before I crash mentally and physically and dive into the nearest cushiony landing. Once upon a time, however, I was a feisty whirling dervish of accomplished overkill like I had a fire lit on my backside and an even hotter fire to my breath. Now I am doing well to exhale fumes, sort of like today.

Today I maneuvered past the oncoming crash by putting on my all-purpose trail shoes, grabbing a spray can of Rustoleum and making a beeline for the outdoors to plant a coat of hammered copper on a metal bench — quite the uncomfortable spot for a crash landing. However, since I was already in the red zone, I didn’t even bother hosing off the dust before I began spraying away. By the time I had pulled the hose to the bench or a sponge with a water-filled bucket I would have stopped right there and not gotten back to it. I’m not “normally” like this, much preferring the most perfect form I can handle in any activity, but these days all I am doing is breathing fumes rather than fire, so I’ll take what I can get.

Wishing all the best to Jenny Ryan, whom I still think is the same witty person, only in a different, uncooperative body. May she breathe fire instead of fumes.