Okay, I admit it: between helping hubby heal, worrying about the wedding, drilling driving, camp cooking, organized outings, homeschool happening, bad bowling, and daunting dancing, I’m starting to feel somewhat stretched.
In the back of my mind there’s always this notion rolling around in there—that, except for a weekend camping trip each July, I only get a vacation every 10 or 15 years; the last one was 13 years ago. I’m overdue.
At least weekly, I daydream (for half a minute) of several consecutive days off—complete with private tub, fuzzy slippers, TV-dinners, chick flicks, and a bottomless cup of coffee.
Don’t get me wrong, a woman my age can’t work in fifth-gear all the time without respites; yeah, I get ‘em: I have coffee with friends once a week, try to take it slower on Saturdays, enjoy one-day outings quite often, and frankly I spend 2 or 3 evenings a week just lolling with my family.
I think, though, my battery’s working on a shallow recharge. After the wedding, and before the Holidays, I might just have to make some plans for some down-time. There shall be no loading, lists, labors, or laundry; no files, finances, forms, or figures; no groceries, grammar, grunt-work, or grannies.
But no worries, I would never do what I remember two different women doing years ago: each of them evidently got burnt out, got in the car, and got out of town—without a word—leaving husband and children wondering her whereabouts. One of them, a co-worker of mine, was actually declared missing for a week. They even posted her job before she came strolling into the office as if she’d just been on a 15-minute coffee break.
Okay, I’m scaring you, aren’t I? Seriously, I’m not going to take off. Not without warning, anyway. 😉