The completion of a good show always brings a wave of intense satisfaction, spiced up with some other emotions that I haven't classified yet.
Then there's strike.
Collectively destroying a creation that has taken months of hard work to build within the span of a few hours is always somewhat tingly. It's like Tibetan sand mandalas, only the destruction process takes much more physical labor than the wind whisking it away, and as such, the crew is by that time too exhausted to experience any meditative catharsis.
It didn't help, I suppose, that I spent most of this last show curled up in a corner of the booth, crawling to my chair now and then for this or that light cue. It was the culmination of about a week and a half of peculiar body pain, which has been attributed to everything from carrying too heavy of a backpack to other people's stress. Nevertheless, Jeff was kind to me in my strike duties, and afterwards while picking whether to come in the next day from 12-2 or 2-4 to finish up, Matthew and Squirt shooed me into the "not at all" pile.
So, no cast party for me, but I was instead rewarded with a long-needed recovery sleep of 12 hours exactly. As I woke up, the unusual body pain had been converted to a normal soreness that one tends to feel after a heavy workout (granted, I was half-awake at 10, and had trouble rolling over and opening and closing my hands, but 4 more hours of sleep processed that away). Of course, it does feel like my latissimus dorsi is going to suddenly snap away from my ribs with every movement, but it's not the sharp, throbbing pain that it has been for the past week.
Today, then, begins the "Day of 10000 things to do to catch up with myself," starting *sniff sniff* with cleaning my room and doing my laundry.