I've been counting. I've been reciting the numbers, clinging to them, mouthing them to keep myself sane. Maybe it's because I'm exhausted. Or maybe it's because they're ludicrous to even me at this point.
Since I left Alberta on August 6, I've had 2 days off work. (The last day I took off was August 26; nearly a month ago.)
With roughly 5 contracts per week, I have been working an average of 10 to 12 hours per day.
Today marks my 29th day of work in a row.
And on day 25, I determined that 24 days of straight work in a row is my limit. I feel fine, but I'm making mistakes. I've broken glass doors, ripped my dress, forgotten to eat and misread train tickets. I've nearly missed deadlines, I've forgotten directions, and I've been self-condemned to solo late night Game of Thrones marathons and the subsequent night terrors. I haven't done laundry or bought groceries. I've been running to prevent myself from crying. (One is a better source of endorphins than the other.) I've been to Vancouver, back to Toronto again and now I'm on my way to Montréal.
But it's okay, because it's near the end and now I'm focusing on my favourite numbers of all:
I only have 1 more Go Global Expo to attend.
I only have 1 more article to write.
In 2 hours I'll be in Montréal.
In 7 days I get a day off. A month off, actually.
In 13 days I'll meet Mike in Tokyo.
And in 17 days, I will be in Thailand drinking buckets and this will all seem like someone else's life.
And then there's the other numbers: the unpaid invoices and my bank account balance. If working 12-hour days for two months straight affords me the chance to take a month off and travel with my best friend, I'll take it.
This is the life that I always wanted--up until day 25 anyway.