The weekend spun out of control. No—no blackouts; I didn’t steal a car. More like I just lost the weekend to work: a freelance project due Monday, and not of the writing flavor, either. Let’s just say my red pencils are worn down to dull nubs and I have pink eraser dust all over my pants. I spent 25 hours on this thing, but when I calculate what the bill will be it hardly seems worth it. Now I am done. It is Monday morning and I’ve dragged myself to this Starbucks, my backpack bursting with the pages of the project plus my laptop plus whatever else is in there. Of course I have to be at work in less than two hours, an immense amount of work waiting for me there, too.
I feel like I’ve been stuck in traffic inside the Lincoln Tunnel all weekend. I was inching forward, thinking the lights of Midtown Manhattan were right around the next bend, but no, those grimy tiled walls go on forever. My brain feels loose, like I’ve been breathing in the exhaust fumes. I need a weekend to recover from my weekend.
My mother has been asking me what I want for Christmas. I don’t know why we even celebrate the holiday, but we do because I guess we just like excuses to get each other presents. I keep telling her I want nothing special. She says there must be something I can’t get for myself that I want (but under $50 because I know she can’t afford much else). So I told her there is only one thing I want: time. I mean, my first-gen iPod is broken, but if I could have one thing it would more time in the day. Can that be wrapped up and stuck with a bow and shoved in my stocking?
Here’s a present to myself: NO MORE UNNECESSARY FREELANCE PROJECTS, at least until the New Year. Really.