When you’ve waited months and months, even years, for a long vacation, by the time it begins you’re already dreading its end. Tomorrow is the last day of my holiday break, and although it’s been nice not to have to think about work for a while, it doesn’t feel long enough. It feels…incomplete. Especially under covid-19 limitations. Is it truly a vacation if the only difference is not working? Vacations are supposed to be time for relaxing, having fun, breaking out of the everyday humdrum. I swore all through December that when my vacation began, I would do absolutely nothing. But hours after taking my son home to his father post-Christmas and beginning my time off, I was bored. I didn’t do nothing. I began taking down the Christmas decorations. I began packing for our move. I began cleaning things out and throwing things away. I read books. I exercised. I ate too much and enjoyed every calorie.
I still thought about work, though. I had to keep busy because otherwise I thought about work too much.
I love my job. I’m fortunate to have it.
But man, I’m still feeling that mental and emotional exhaustion from the horrors of 2020. I really thought that somehow, this time off to just enjoy myself would relieve that exhaustion, make it fade away. But it didn’t. And now I am counting down the hours until I have to resume what has been my “normal life” for the past 9 months.
I don’t want to. I want to go back to work, yes, but not here at home. I want to go back to the life where work is at work and home is at home and when I’m not at work I don’t have to think about. I don’t feel a need think about it.
36 hours and counting.