I'm back on campus this morning after spending four days never setting foot outside my front door (sick, bleh) and one of my wonderful colleagues comes up to me with a big smile, pats me on the back, and says, "I can't believe your sabbatical is over already!"
Thanks. Thanks a lot. I can't quite believe it either. I look back and tote up how much I've accomplished since January and I feel pretty good--until I notice those pesky bits of my project that remain incomplete. Kind of important pesky bits.
Then I remind myself that I still have all summer, except for the parts set aside for working in the garden, preparing for four fall classes (two of them brand-new!), teaching my online course (provided that at least three more people register), and spending a week sequestered in a secret bunker in an undisclosed location reading and evaluating hundreds upon hundreds of essays written for the standardized test that dares not speak its name. (The contract I signed includes a confidentiality clause so convoluted that I keep expecting Q to pop up and issue special cat-eye glasses spangled with jewels capable of emitting laser beams strong enough to incinerate intruders at 20 paces--and if I'm allowed to choose my own Q, I choose John Cleese.)
So yes, I've got all summer, except it's no different from any other summer except that I'll need to squeeze in the last little bits of my sabbatical work. Sabbaticalsummer. Summsabbaticaler. Sabbatisummicaler. Whatever. All I know is that it's all over but the shouting so we may as well shout.