Not trying to humblebrag, but I nearly worked myself to death in 2021. Long strings of 7-day work weeks, coupled with managing a home where two teens were stranded and stuck in online schooling hell thanks to COVID. So in that lethargic, otherworldly limbo between Christmas and New Year’s, I decided to take a vacation.
Or, rather, a hiatus, since I went nowhere. And surprisingly, it was harder than I thought. At least at the start.
Day One: Yeah! A whole week off! I deserve this!
Days Two and Three: Do nothing? Seriously? How can I just lie around and not work? If I don’t work, who am I? How do I exist when not at my desk? Am I even ME?
Yep, full-blown existential crisis.
Day Four: I begin marathon-watching two of my old favourites, The Office and Monk. I buy coffee Haagen-Dazs to put in my ice cream. I seriously contemplate bathing all four of my dogs, but I lie down until the feeling passes. I do walk them, though, so stop judging me.
A neighbour intercepts me mid-walk to give me a nicely wrapped box of chocolates, so SCORE!
Days Five and Six: TV marathon in full swing. I have a swim in my neighbour’s pool. We order out so I don’t have to cook. Domino’s cinnastix become my best friend. I take up zentangles again, a hobby I loved but let lapse in the past year. See the one up there? Yeah, that’s mine.
Day Seven: I can’t believe an entire week has passed! Do I really have to go back to my desk?
Yes. Yes I do. I’m awakened at the crack by a yowling cat to rescue a lizard she has stashed under my bed. Great way to start the week.
And here I am. Let’s make it a good year, folkses.
