Two weeks to go until April 15th. This is where the rubber hits the road, the women are separated from the girls, and sanity and reality part ways. From here on out, there is no existence but the dazed fog of the hypnotized, the glassy eyes, the glossed-over look, the perpetual expression of the stunned. No more breathing until this thing is done. Just eat, drink, and - worst of all - sleep taxes. Taxes, numbers, deadlines, reminders. Checking the box, double-checking the figures, delivering bad news.
No one is happy. Not you, not me. Except you get to sleep at night. Not me. I live in constant fear of not being able to make it to the finish line, knowing that a permanent crack-up is just around the corner, lying in wait, ready to pounce on the first sign of surrender. I can't cry and I can't laugh because I'm not sure which is which anymore. Good grief, I chose this for a living? Who in their right mind would do that?
Oh, wait. It must be a prerequisite - to be a masochistic, marathon runner, super-woman wannabe. Someone who feels in control enough of the time to feel like one can do anything, take charge of any challenge before her.
Until April, that is. That's when she crumbles. When she is supplied with a chocolate IV and a gerbil feeder with an unlimited supply of coffee at her desk. And a pillow for the rare times she is allowed to put her head down. Because, she is not going home. Not for two more weeks.