Suddenly I feel as though I'm back in the 9-5 world, with that depressed-on-Sunday-evening, what-a-long-crappy-week-ahead feeling--only, of course, it's worse because this weekend I felt such an obligation to be productive in the futile hope of being ahead of the game once papers from all 80 of my students hit virtually at once.

I did, actually, get a reasonable amount done: wrote a rec letter for a former professor of mine, who's now up for a tenured job elsewhere; finalized my job market materials, set up a spreadsheet to track my applications, and assembled ELEVEN entire job applications (right now I'm only doing those that don't yet require recommendation letters, since most of my recommenders are in the process of updating their letters); sorted through tons of papers and started various new files; painted my toenails; talked to several good friends on the phone; tried but failed to finish putting together a summary report of my research for Schmancy.

Then last night, after mass, I went downtown to D's apartment, where she and I and two other friends hung out on the roof of her building with wine and a pair of delicious French cheeses as the sun set. It was a full harvest moon last night, golden and luminous between the rooftops, seemingly suspended just a hairsbreadth away. As we chatted and drank, Mr. D., meanwhile, was slaving away over a hot stove four stories down--"getting in touch with his creative side," D shrugged--and shortly after 9 p.m. we went down to feast on his creations.

Really lovely. Except that I spent all the long subway ride home fretting about how unprepared I was for my classes tomorrow (today), and wondering whether my relative lack of concern about same made me a bad teacher.

Damn. What happened to the summer?