I’m just not a pleasant person to be around when trying to leave on vacation. I stomp and storm. Not pretty.
The tempest is the build up of stress, the need to flee work pressure, to escape constant deadlines, to shed the dozens who appear at my cube every ten minutes, or so, with questions, questions, questions. The patience it drains to consider each one, decide yes or no, and further, to explain the philosophy behind my responses—believing if they understand the why, they’ll be able to craft their own decisions, and the right ones, in the field—takes boundless energy.
Personal power piddled down to an unsteady drip of a leaky faucet. No energy. Except to, well, yell.
I was so horribly prepared for this week off my dear daughter did my packing. She started an hour before we left. That is quite possibly child labor in some homes, but in mine a gesture of love. Sweet love, someone loves me very much. I am grateful.
When I finally slid behind the wheel, all energy pumped out, forced out into cleaning and scouring so we wouldn’t come home to the same old mess, and seriously bled dry by not enough pre-planning, I was exhausted.
All I craved was a couch and a cover to crack. Hardbound, paperback, didn’t matter. I crated two dozen and threw them in the trunk. A partial tank of gas later, we arrived.
The next issue was the others who love me. The rest of the family. I heard them plainly as each mile passed between us and home. “No computer.” “Stop reading.” “Come with us.” But the physical hurdle to overcome crossed The Columbia.
We arrived 10PM, hungry, everything closed except Chen’s Chinese. We grabbed our take-out and dodged horses clopping on the sidewalk. Seriously. We are totally in the Wild West, which isn’t a problem per se, it’s the road apples that annoy.
At the condo, I turned on my computer. I grappled through a few pages of my book. I slipped into bed….
I think they call that sleep.