The trouble with four day weekends when you're a confessed workaholic is that you stop doing for four days. Then you have to start doing again. Whoops, trouble. It's hard to get the old motor running sometimes. Considering that several of those days were spent contemplating the not white, cobwebby ceiling. Or face buried, figuratively speaking since arms length is more user friendly, in a book. Not to mention that if you angle the laptop screen just right you don't even have to adjust the pillows too much to view the DVD. The Bank Job was particularly good, give 10,000BC a miss. 300 it is not.
There was no manic trek to the beach, no limes planned as if for a campaign across the Russian Steppes in winter; nor was there tremendous amounts of food and alcohol on tap during the long weekend. There was however, some contemplation of toes that led to a basin full of hot water, a pumice thingy and Vixen red nail polish. A red car summarily being backed out onto the driveway and a hose, bucket full of suds and some elbow grease applied. Some more contemplation of the ceiling and then the insides of eyelids. Desultory tennis ball lobbing at hound to keep him occupied and in between, serious belly rubs and lovies.
Yes, that was the life! And then, it was Tuesday. Alas, the first meeting was at 9:00 am. Brain was still in weekend mode, not pretty. The blog held no comfort, too much of an effort to get the fingers to curl around in the appropriate asdf ;lkj mode after hours of brain numbing meetings, fervent exhortations and deadlines. All to drag aging body to newly washed car, home to sulking animal. Too tired to ball toss, to chew, to even change the channel on the remote. Which led to, sleeping face down still partially dressed with make up. Were it not for a lack of TP, there would have been no grocery run.
And now we have another of long weekend. Again. Oh dear.