Thinking to myself on a Sunday night.

That moment when you’re partway through a pile of quizzes, and having paused for a few good-night kisses, started mis-marking the questions . . . and you have to go back through all of them to fix your marking error. And you’re marking in pen because once, long ago, when you’d used pencil, a student had received work back and crowed in delight because (as she declared loudly), she could erase the incriminating feedback and her parents would never know the wiser, so you’ve pretty much kept to pen ever since. 

That space of time on a weekend morning, when you know how fast the hours are going to go by and yet you can’t summon the willpower to leave the coziness of the bed and binge-watching a new show while cuddled up next to the significant other. The minutes tick by, running you closer and closer to the return of the work week, and the pressure keeps you from really savouring the moment, yet actually doing something productive is more than you can manage.

That sinking feeling when you are reminded yet again that you’re a lousy housekeeper, according to social standards, and that you’re starting to accept it as a way of life. 

That triumph when you bypass the point in the knitting project where you’d had to unravel it all and start over again, and you’re succeeding. Two weeks ago you’d contemplated tossing the whole thing into a bag and never looking at it again. But the project has achieved a rhythm and you can see its shape now, and the first roll of yarn is nearing its end — you’ll soon have to switch to a new skein.

That tick of realization in planning a school trip that it’s perfectly okay to have an estimated goal for accommodations as long as the bus is paid for first. And the slump of the shoulders at the thought of all the paperwork yet to be filled out for it.

That knot of tension in the shoulders. 

That numbness of the butt after hours of late Sunday-night marking.

That comforting knowledge of a short week, thanks to an approaching holiday. 

Fresh knot at the prospect of shopping for said holiday.

Those dreams of being chased by zombies through theme parks, or being back in a childhood / adolescent home, trying to deal with prospective childbirth, from which you want to escape but you go back into sleep after using the washroom and letting the dog out for a pee because you need to see that everything turns out okay.

The ragged bits of cuticle that are vistual testimony to the nerves and anxiety that you can’t quite shake.

The memories of meditation, yoga, jogging attempts, and circuit training at the gym.

Sunday night.

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