All Hail the Steve. With the coffers of the empire fattened and fortunes continuing to wax, he hath righteously loosened the shackles of the wage-slaves; most of us have the entire Thanksgiving week off, with pay. The problem is, I’m not adjusting to it very well.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not the sort of person who feels guilty for not toiling away in my cubicle, or spends time at home thinking about or working on my corporate assignments. Hell, I barely give them a passing thought when I’m at my desk. No, the problem is that I don’t seem to be relaxing at all. Do you ever get that feeling on Sunday afternoon? You know, the one where the thought of the impending workweek and your descent back into bondage is hanging over your head? It usually strikes me around noon every Sunday, when the awful realization that the fleeting remains of the weekend are slipping inexorably away.

Well, I’ve had that feeling since Sunday around noon, and it hasn’t left. Monday, the first day of the holiday, came and went, with nary a dent in that "you’ve got to go back to work tomorrow" feeling. Even today, I can’t shake it, even though I know there’s another five days of indolent bliss ahead of me. I guess my brain has, over many years of moil in the cube farm, developed a sort of twisted quasi-circadian rhythm — two days free, five at work, and anything different just doesn’t feel right. That’s messed up. Maybe I should call in sick for the next week, too. You know, just to cure myself. I’m sure my boss would understand.