Sooo sleepy after five days on, but not as wiped out as I was week one. Sleep. The reward of good physical and mental labor, although I never slept nearly so well when I was in the purely mental labor business.
I counted 30 distinct bruises, from ankle to hip and wrist to elbow. Begged Sweet Babboo to take a picture but he refused. "They'll think I beat you." Sissy.
Days of climbing into and out of trucks; pushing several hundred pounds of gaylords (those roughly 4x4x4 boxes) around with pallet jacks; rolling hundreds of pounds of wheeled bins around; pushing metal trash bins (5x5x2 or so) up ramps and into trucks, then out of trucks; (wo)manhandling lift gates and ramps and truck hoods and every sort of 'donation.'
Sundays are a particularly goofy day for donations. The dump is closed, so lots of charming folks drop their dump runs right below the signs that say "It's against the law to leave your shtuff here when this donation site is unattended." ... What do they leave? The shtuff no salvage/thrift shop can use, but have to pay bucks to dispose of, I think. (Maybe the trash folks cut us a break? I dunno.) Anyway, I've dragged torn up and broken couches, desks, etc off the trucks. A refrigerator. A stove.
Side note: it's amazingly easy to (wo)manhandle big furniture when you're not trying to protect/preserve it. and fun!
and I've had the easy part of the trash runs -- just pulling misc stuff off the trucks, then consolidating it onto a 'trash run' truck. The other drivers have had to go to the sites and load up. Plus go to the dump to drop all these 'donations' off.
So, I deviated. Really, in the big scheme of the organized chaos that is the thrift business, the dumpers are small in number. Many donations are lovely and given with thought towards the good that they can bring to the organization and the home they can find with new owners. I took in a set of vintage punch glasses that had belonged to a woman's aunt. She couldn't use them, but you could feel her fondness for her family and her wish for good things to come of her gift to us. I like that.
And still, I deviate. I Must be tired. Punch drunk, maybe? ... My point, if I had one, was to say, "I'm all bruised up and dern'd proud of it."