Having a real 8-5 job makes me feel the expression "working for the weekend" in a much more literal way... I was a hermit this week, but I really needed to be. It was insane. But in spite of the moments where I think I have no idea what's going on, straining my voice to tell chatty students to calm down for the umpteenth time, and coming home exhausted, there isn't anything else in the world I'd rather be doing now.
And then comes the weekend-
Friday night at the expat watering hole (is there anywhere Irish pubs are not?)
Seeing old new friends and starting a fresh year,
Coming home with the smell of second-hand smoke and metro grime.
And back before the metro closes, because I refuse to pay gypsy taxi prices.
I wouldn't have it any other way.