This past weekend I sat my arse on the coach and read comic books. When I was done with that, I watched some wrestling DVDs. And brother, let me tell, you it was a weekend of glorious brilliance the like I haven’t experienced lately. After two straight months where, more often than not, you’d find me on a plane or hanging out at a writers festival or otherwise engaged in day-job related hijinx, the realisation that I had not a goddamn thing that needed to be done was freeing.
I mean, the travel, it defeated me. For years I’ve been talking with my friend Kevin about the debilitating effects of work travel, not quite getting his dislike of it, ’cause on the rare instances I’ve had to travel for work it’s either been a) rare, or b) not that far. I now feel like I need to buy Kevin several beers of apology ’cause I totally get it now. Even when you don’t mind travel – and I don’t – and the work trips come with little perks like catching up with friends, there’s a point where your brain just shuts down and says “bugger this for a game of soldiers, I want me own bed” and I hit that, oh, about three weeks back.
Too much time away from home, too many interruptions to the routine, and no time to recharge. The exhaustion finally crept up on me and even during the week, when I was working, I’d find myself falling asleep on the couch around 6:30.
Hence, the weekend of comic books. For the most part, they were really good comic books. Classic GI Joe. Avengers: The Initiative. Birds of Prey. The Absolute Death compendium.
That’s what I did with my weekend. How about you?
