That's how writing during a holiday week makes me feel. I sent off a project at 9:45 tonight after working practically nonstop since early on the 26th to finish it. I'd done nothing but holiday on the 25th, of course, and very little work of note on the 24th. The 26th went well, but the 27th was a killer. Apathy, envy, and seeming ineptitude ruled the day. Extreme exhaustion was my constant companion. Luckily, though, today went well. But it was a long haul to get where I needed to be. I don't think I moved anything but typing and darting (of the eye) muscles for my last several hours of work.
I joined my husband at 10 on the main floor for a saaaaad little orangey dinner of blue-box mac and cheese. (The beautiful prime rib of the 25th and 26th it was not.) I must say I was shocked that he'd waited to eat with me. I told him at 4 that I fully expected to be done by 7, at which time I'd love to get a pizza. You'd think that 17+ years into the relationship, he'd know that my prediction would be hours off the mark and not in my favor. That his best course of action by far would have been to save himself and eat something already. But he waited for me and supportively suffered through the same blah late-night dinner. Sweet.
I often feel too keyed up after working late to think about sleep right away. My wheels just keep spinning. So I've been sitting around, flipping through magazines, surfing the Net a little, and just trying to get a handle on what day it is. I keep swearing it's late Sunday night because it feels like I missed a weekend. But it really is a Friday. I'll take it since I don't plan to work again until the afternoon of the real Sunday coming up next.