Collapsing

My body has the strangest habit - when push comes to shove, when my time is not my own and my schedule is slammed to the proverbial wall, it comes through like a trooper - on steroids. When the rush is over it ... falls apart.

I don't mean this in the emotional sense, although this happens, too. Typically, in the days when I wrote novels, I would dump the manuscript with FedEx and while I was there my head would start to throb. By the time I got home, I had a 100-degree fever and the energy of a newborn (less, really, since I had no lung capacity, either). I would stay in bed for about three days and make my family's life a living hell.

Nowadays, it's not usually that dramatic, mainly because I guard my Fridays with a fierce Bunny growl - "mine, mine, MINE!" Unfortunately, this week I have had ten- to twelve-hour days for the past six days straight, and last Friday was a bit ... long ... with hunting and a busy-ness all out of proportion to "rest," which is what I needed. My system is confused. It's reacted as if already in the Killing Time. It's falling apart.

And it's not attractive. I can't think, or write, or do much more than putter around here every hour or so (and no more than twenty feet from the nearest restroom). So, rather than try to tell you stories about the hunting I didn't do or the treasure I didn't find (yet), I'll just see you next week ... assuming I survive my twelve hour Saturday and Sunday and Monday and ...

I just need a very long nap. Really.