"Too much of anything, Lieutenant, even love, isn’t necessarily a good thing."  — Captain Kirk, The Trouble with Tribbles

I love my job being a freelance writer.  I telecommute, can take care of my pets and my Mom, and pick and choose my assignments.  After years of having really crappy jobs like working in retail, it’s a kick looking forward to going to work for a change.  So I don’t really like taking a day off from a job I love.

However, I guess I love it a little too much.  On Saturday, I physically collapsed after taking a bath.  When I wondered aloud to my Mom why it happened (after I revived, of course), she said, "Whaddya expect?  You’ve been working ten hours a day for the past three months."

I Have?

"Mom, are you sure?" 

"Of course I’m sure.  Your office is my bedroom."

Ah, yes, that’s how she knows.  I never really took track of my health as a kid, so Mom has had plenty pf practice monitoring my health.  So I work at the computer or at the filing cabinet or at researching articles ten hours a day seven days a week.  I’m only in my late 30’s.  Should be a piece of cake.

Obviously not.

Emergency Micro Holiday

On Saturday, I had to lie down and not move for about an hour before I could I do anything.  Then, I had to (sigh) turn off the computer and watch two hours of crap television.  Then I cracked open a novel I’d never gotten around to reading — The Hunt for Red October by Tom Clancy — watched my goldfish do their fishy thing for a while (wow — tow of them are changing color) and then I was drowsy enough for bed.

The next day, I woke up refreshed and ready to go.  I only worked about six hours, though.  I might only work five today.  It’s okay to take a day off.  At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

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