Do you ever just want a night off? Like, where you get to take time out from everything you're doing (not just work) and recuperate for a minute? Me too. And I don't even have kids or cows or a Chicago-style mail-order catalog business to worry about. Just my own little life. Which is enough.
Take the last few days, for example. First I spend three days in Chicago, packing in as many performances and restaurants and friends and beluga whales (yes, dang it, I totally have video of beluga whales that I forgot to post) and all-night conversations as can possibly fit into three days. Then I come home and proceed to work approximately 40 hours between Sunday night and 10am this morning, all so that my client could buy three companies by the first of the month.
By noon I was pooped. But I still had plenty of other work to do, and of course there was my usual Wednesday evening yoga class and an invitation from Jennifer to see the Philadelphia Orchestra in concert at the Kennedy Center. So I plowed ahead with the best intentions of Being Productive . . . only to find myself waking up with a crick in my neck after falling asleep at my desk.
At that point I decided I needed to reboot. I checked my list of Things To Do; everything was either optional or could be done another day. So I canceled yoga, took a rain check on the symphony tickets, and left work a little after 5pm. By 6pm I was home.
After I finished wierding out about seeing my apartment in afternoon light for the first time in about a million years, I realized that I couldn't just go to bed. I mean seriously, there's a difference between being tired and being a fossil. So I went on a quick 20-mile bike ride, made some dinner, and watched the latest episode of New Girl (and also Smash, because apparently I lose all self control when I have unstructured time on the couch in front of the television).
And now it's bedtime. Time to curl up in my flannel sheets and read a few pages of Les Miserables. Because there's nothing like drifting off to sleep with visions of 19th-century Parisian sewers in your head.
Take the last few days, for example. First I spend three days in Chicago, packing in as many performances and restaurants and friends and beluga whales (yes, dang it, I totally have video of beluga whales that I forgot to post) and all-night conversations as can possibly fit into three days. Then I come home and proceed to work approximately 40 hours between Sunday night and 10am this morning, all so that my client could buy three companies by the first of the month.
By noon I was pooped. But I still had plenty of other work to do, and of course there was my usual Wednesday evening yoga class and an invitation from Jennifer to see the Philadelphia Orchestra in concert at the Kennedy Center. So I plowed ahead with the best intentions of Being Productive . . . only to find myself waking up with a crick in my neck after falling asleep at my desk.
At that point I decided I needed to reboot. I checked my list of Things To Do; everything was either optional or could be done another day. So I canceled yoga, took a rain check on the symphony tickets, and left work a little after 5pm. By 6pm I was home.
After I finished wierding out about seeing my apartment in afternoon light for the first time in about a million years, I realized that I couldn't just go to bed. I mean seriously, there's a difference between being tired and being a fossil. So I went on a quick 20-mile bike ride, made some dinner, and watched the latest episode of New Girl (and also Smash, because apparently I lose all self control when I have unstructured time on the couch in front of the television).
And now it's bedtime. Time to curl up in my flannel sheets and read a few pages of Les Miserables. Because there's nothing like drifting off to sleep with visions of 19th-century Parisian sewers in your head.
2 comments:
"All-night conversations" - please. Someone insisted we go to sleep at two AM.
No catching up on Downton Abbey? Lady
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