Don't feel hate, hibernate!

Like a bear emerging from its cave at the end of winter, this morning I opened the door to my apartment.

For the first time in 36 hours.

It was glorious.

By Friday night, despite having the morning and a bulk of the afternoon off, I was like a mama bear missing her cub. I was hungry. I was tired. My back hurt. My list of things to do was monumental, a far cry from the Friday nights of my college years when I would customarily be napping at that time before spending a night on the town.

I just wanted to be alone. I was surrounded by teenagers. And I had worked, in some capacity, for the past 11 days straight.

I needed a Sunday. I needed a day of rest. 

So after playing at mass on Saturday, I holed up in my apartment. Grabbed some lemon water and saltines-- my new guilty pleasure, and found the one thing I had been looking for, that without, was turning me into a cranky you know what.

I slept. Didn't put a speck of makeup on. Was content in my glasses. Read an entire book. Talked to the people I loved. And slept.

And come 7:30 this morning, stepping out into the brisk air, I felt like I had hibernated for an entire winter.

No case of the Mondays for this member of the rat race.