Dear awesome readers,
I woke up with the intention of attacking my to-do list. It’s what I thought about before even opening my eyes this morning. It was 4:52 a.m. and the gentle breeze that snuck through the screen in my bedroom window was on a mission: to wake me up and remind me that my vacation days had run out. Or possibly run AWAY, chased by everything I had planned to accomplish during my week off.
I knew this day would come. I knew it even before my weeklong vacation started. It’s one of the occupational hazards of any working stiff.
The weeks and sometimes months (if you’re good at planning) are spent counting down the days. Your mental to-do list gets filled with all the stuff you want to do and all the stuff you’re not even going to think about. (Work stuff, mostly.) You envision plump, juicy days that will end with watching the sun go down from the porch off the kitchen. Each sunset is going to be toasted with a glass of chilled Chardonnay.
“There are over 200 hours in a weeklong vacation, including the two weekends on each side, and you’re going to get shit done.”
That’s what I told myself.
I scheduled this time off around my move. My plan was to get settled into the new (old) house.
“An entire week in my new house!”
I couldn’t wait.
I was going to start each day by writing and going to the gym, and then organizing my new life in the country.
I went to the gym once.
Last Day of Vacation
The one thing I did achieve this week was wafting into a routine. Of all the little things that took up my days, not once did I stumble on thoughts about traffic or agendas. Meals were driven by hunger pangs and mornings were nudged awake by the urge for coffee.
“I could live like this FOREVER.”
Except now I’m not sure if it was an achievement or a delusion because the last thing I want to do is return to reality. And by reality I mean the routine of a working stiff.