Days of the Week Mean Something Once More

If the last few months have taught me anything, it's how to properly value Fridays.

This was my first week back at work. We've started up curbside appointments, and it's taken what seems like months to iron out all the procedures, and a fair bit of helping to keep things running smoothly and safely fell on my shoulders, along with a group of about 20 others.

On Monday, I put in 16,000+ steps, and passed out as soon as I got home.

On Tuesday, I awoke thinking "I can't do another four days of this." All that day, I was in a high bitch of a mood--tired and exhausted and in pain, even.

On Wednesday, I got my second wind--it helped that there were various work fires to put out, and a noticeable uptick in work to be done, and we were a bit short staffed. It's almost like, when there are more challenges, it's almost easier to rise to the occasion with good cheer and energy.

On Thursday, I plateaued. I chugged along and did work and remained present and reminded myself that the weekend was almost here.

And on Friday, I basically just spent it doing all of what I had done earlier. And I thought, with increasing glee, oh god. The weekend. I can't wait. I just have to get through the next several hours of work, drop shit off for T---, work for The Prof, send off about twenty emails, oh! and pick up wine. But, oh, god: the joy of Fridays. What a lovely, lovely thing. It is a simple, pure joy, and I will never forget it.

At 10 PM on Friday evening, Mama Manager put down her sword.

My Dogs Are Barking

7:30 AM on June 1
Fourteen years ago, I started my first professional, full-time job. I was 26 years old, and had just moved to California after graduating with my master's and spending what seemed like countless years in a (comparatively) footloose and fancy-free student lifestyle. The student life I had led had been characterized by deadlines of hyper-inflated importance, odd hours, hastily-arranged lunches and coffee dates and happy hours with friends, late nights of reading boring technical literature, and unending anxiety about grades. It was grueling and stressful and, in hindsight, absolutely glorious for the freedom it gave me without my realizing it.

I don't remember what I wore on my first day of work; I don't remember if I had first day jitters. I do remember realizing, very early in my day, that my boss was a bit of a mercurial and moody person; I remember eating my lunch in the stuffy attic of the old Carnegie part of the library; I remember the little thrill of pride and glee I got when I answered my first basic reference question. And I remember returning to my empty, lonely, overpriced apartment that night, completely fucking exhausted. 

Today, I start back to work after the longest stretch of relative freedom I've ever experienced in my adult life. While the last good few weeks I've spent glued to my laptop at my kitchen table for unending odd hours, including evening and weekends, returning to the library building and putting in up to 8.5 hours a day in there is going to be a bit of a shock to the system? Will I be as exhausted as I was on that summer day, 14 years ago?

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6:30 PM on June 1
Oh my god my poor feet.

I'll be sleeping the sleep of the blameless tonight.