After more than ten years of doing massage work, I recognize the signs of my cyclical burnout. It's never anything so strong that I want to throw it all away or that my clients suffer under my less than fully enthusiastic hands, but it's there. I watch the clock too closely. I hover slightly outside myself and think, "You have your elbow in this woman's butt cheek. Don't you think that's weird?" I work out plot points for my novel while I knead someone's shoulders. In my mind, I drift off toward the park and imagine myself lying under the trees. Luckily, my hands seem to work without much input from my brain. Luckily, I leave in less than a week.