Conference partying is well and good, but its wages are, if not death, still pretty grim: I always wake up on the last day feeling like I've been beaten with a stick. My lower back aches from hours of standing around gabbing in heels. My shoulders are cricked from an equal number of hours hunched over a notepad. My skin is ghastly from too little sleep and too much drink and overly rich meals out on the town.
Maybe this is why so many of our departments provide so little travel funding: like taxes on cigarettes, it's intended for our own good.
5 comments:
I am 100% knackered. Good to see you, even though very very, all too briefly.
I don't feel beaten with a stick. I feel, what's the word? Tenderized.
But then, I didn't get a hangover, shared oysters with a colleague who got food poisoning from them while I didn't, and I got called, ahem, "the devil" by another member of the profession. So my weekend went well.
You had oysters with someone who got food poisoning, Dr C? Whoa. See, that's why I don't eat raw oysters. They are just so much more dangerous than raw fish (which I eat with relish... well, not with relish really, with wasabi).
on the devil remark, let's just say that that goatee does give you a certain hellish aspect.
Good to see you too, H!
If it were only the weekend for which I felt beaten with a stick, it would be worth it. But there's this whole WORK WEEK I'm now crawling toward in my battered and bedraggled fashion. . .
Good to see all three of you.
I am still hungover (I think). I am yet again amazed at my students' abilities to pull all-nighters and indulge in bacchanals and still write coherent papers the next day.
And even more amazed that once, I used to do that too.
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