One more day of enjoying my mostly destroyed house and my sweet-as-pie toddler without worrying about work.
One more day of not counting calories, not worrying about why my stomach seems "bloated," not trying to get my 5-a-day.
One more day of scouting out vacation condos and planning a Vegas blowout for our 30th birthdays (in 2009).
One more day of oogling the Mandalay Bay's website and thinking it wouldn't be so bad if we were turning 30 this year.
One more day of not worrying that I have two conference proposals accepted and not a single paper for either one.
One more day of vacation.
Because on Monday
I start getting up at 6AM
I get my butt back on the elliptical machine and start the weights again.
I stop eating crap and start losing the last of this baby weight so I can look far too good for the mother of a two year old in Florida this year.
I get back to work and 1) plan the first few weeks of class--lesson plans, lectures, and power points; get myself to the library and start looking at Faulkner's *%@#! manuscripts, and 3) start revising the Fitzgerald piece so that my CV kicks the ass of at least 70% of the other 20th century applicants on this year's (that's right folks--the time is finally here!) job market.
Because if J can shave off his beloved beard in an attempt to get professional, I think I can do the small thing of writing one measly little thesis.