Today is my first day back at work after 9 days off. It occurred to me about a month ago that if I took my last 3 vacation days the week of Thanksgiving, I’d get 9 days off in a row – something that hasn’t happened since 1992. Seemed like a no-brainer.
I don’t know what I was expecting. Wait, yes, I do. I thought it’d be a great opportunity to be productive around the house. I had a whole list of things to do. I did one of them – the frig is clean. I didn’t organize the boxes of bar books. I didn’t do ALL the laundry. I didn’t redo the Boy Child’s bedroom. I did bake a bunch of cookies, but froze none of them.
Don’t get me wrong – it wasn’t terrible. I just couldn’t get motivated for those projects. It was so much easier to watch TV or take Jack for a walk. To be fair, there was a fair amount of entertaining, an auction to attend, Thanksgiving, crafting with the ladies.
You’d think being a slob all that time would perk me up. But as I come back to work, I feel something lacking. I hoped maybe for some great release, some clearing of the head. Nothing here is different. The break from the routine was nice, but now it hardly feels like any time passed.
I’m beginning to think this slogging through of things is just how it is now, and it was foolish to think 9 days at home would change anything . I yearn for the years past when I truly felt joy and happiness most of the time, and it makes me sad to even type that.
I chase it still.