Finding My Way Out

Let’s get one thing straight, my hands were made for hockey, not for fiddling with tiny pieces of plastic.

I mean, honestly, my career as a brain surgeon ended sometime around the first fistfight, then things just went downhill from there.

So why, I have to ask, was it me who started to put together the tiniest little freaking Legos I’ve ever seen?!  Okay, a dozen pieces can be kinda fun…but 720?  Not 72…SEVEN HUNDRED AND TWENTY!

Just look at this picture of two of the pieces in my hand…I mean, sheesh.  Mission Impossible, here I come…

…umm, does anyone know if you can you get carpal tunnel from freaking Legos?

…an hour of this and I suddenly feel the need to get on the ice and check something…

I had a couple of ten-year-olds stop by when I was working on this “project”, by the way.  They helped…a lot.  That, of course, just made me feel worse — if you’re only as old as you feel, then right about now I’m pretty much 630.

*sigh*

I’d love to sit here and turn my little project into some blog post that is both profound and enlightening, but, well…

At this particular moment, I’ve switched from Legos to this:

Sunny and 60s…writing on my iPad…drinking a good beer…and Yellowstone is — quite literally — just feet away…

Maybe being a grumpy, slacker of a writer ain’t such a bad thing after all.

Now where the hell did I put today’s chapter notes…?!