Lana feels

It's been a busy, busy week. Now is breathing time. Short, sweet, breathing time. The play is over. You never think you'll be glad to say that until you take that last bow, the house goes dark on the last night, you go backstage and get out of the dress and tights, put your street clothes back on, and leave behind Cookie Cusak. Go home and wash off the four pounds of base, rouge, lipstick, eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, penciled-on wrinkles. Stop being forty with a bad back and go back to being 15 again. 16 in 9 days, actually. Brush your hair out of the chignon that stayed even once you took the clips out because you had so much hairspray in it. My hair is still crispy. And then. You look in the mirror, you're yourself again, and you breathe. Let the adrenaline leave your system. Breathe. Knowing all the while that it's just for a minute, maybe a day, because there's still a week until thanksgiving break, a week in which I have two really important paper-type things due, a week in which I have to work, but breathe. Then find a book, a warm, soft, cushiony couch corner, and relax into the world of some mysterious femme fatale as described by Louisa May Alcott. Fall asleep there, wake up to Mark Clark doing late-night checks, telling me to go to bed. Look up drowsily and explain quite earnestly that I can't go to bed because I have to make the popcorn. Realize it is definitely time to be sleeping, and schlep my tired self off to bed. Sunday Study. TV in Kat Ross' apartment Sunday afternoon because Bobbi's house-sitting there. Homework and sleep. Three non-classes today because of teacher troubles. And diaryland. It's going to be a busy week, but then I go back to Chicago. Talk to Lada, play with Bree and Dana and maybe even Rani. After Thanksgiving... Well. Life, y'know? That's what we do now. Live.