I am really looking forward to next week. This last month of overwhelming work is sort of like getting caught up reading a gripping thriller novel. You find yourself so engrossed that by the time you turn the very last page, you suddenly realize that you've lost a whole day (or the sun is coming up), your muscles are so tense that everything is cramped and in pain, your eyes are twitching, and your knuckles are still white from holding the book for dear life.
I feel like I've been holed up, a hamster furiously racing on his wheel going nowhere. And I've been so focused on such small, bitty tasks that I've lost sight of the world outside, the big picture, the reality of it all. Once I get even the smallest of breathers from the relentless show schedule, I know I need to do a little perspective. Reflect back on what worked, what was a flop, what had value . . . and what didn't. There is a lot to sift through and it's a necessary step in making things better, more efficient, etc.
I might just need a few extra hours in bed staring at the ceiling and contemplating my sore toes. But that's not until next week. Today was a toughie. Barely keeping the balls in the air, dropping just one or two, but still going on with the show. And my excitement at the prospect of a stupendously prosperous weekend at Phinney Ridge is still alive and kicking -- even if my high kicks and rah, rah, rahs are less Rockette . . . a bit more Granny Pants. Just a few more hours of work left tonight. Must. pack. more. soap. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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