Smoke and Chandeliers
Written by Kristin 2.0 on July 5, 2011
I didn't know that buying a chandelier meant I volunteered myself to help hang the damn thing. But there I was, over 4th of July weekend standing on a chair with arms raised to hold all the glass pieces as my boyfriend huffed and puffed and anchored it to the ceiling.
My boyfriend is very talented and by trade a engineer so he's a fix-it guy by nature. But this chandelier came without instructions so it posed a few challenges. Needless to say a few mistakes were made–while my arms were extended above my shoulders and my legs and feet were holding me on a hard wood chair.
How did I distract myself from the pain and stiffness that was creeping into my legs and shoulders–pain which could be stopped at any point in time if my boyfriend would quickly bolt the chandelier into the ceiling correctly? I focused on the god-damn ulcer in my left thumb that feels like little icicles are growing out of my skin, which wasn't caused by my boyfriend but by some unseen pain goblin. Then I chuckled to myself because I realized I was barely breathing for fear of uttering a sound and destroying the progress being made on the chandelier.
Finally I was released from my pain prison and climbed down gingerly from the chair into the dark dining room. As I sat down on the couch and took in the glitz and glamour of the chandelier, I was struck by how much work it took to create the sparkle and how no one will be any the wiser. Kind of reminds me of myself. I work so hard each and every morning to unearth the sparkle once the pain meds, stretches, hot water, chai latte, eye drops, and other therapies take hold of my body. But once I arrive at the office, I'm just like everyone else. No one has any clue how much work goes into the pretty.