to go: 1,050.52
Manager wants to know if I'll be doing anything "fun" next week.
this a 'Mental Health' Vacation," she asks, "or a 'Just-Because'
look at her and smile
sweetly. I've spent most of the morning trying to make the front desk
area as user-friendly as possible, in preparation for the five days
I'll be out of the office next week. Right now I'm affixing little
Post-It Note warnings to office furniture (Open
drawer slowly! Broken runners!)
and to desktop plants (Please
don't kill me while Secra is gone, OK?).
Next I plan to delete all the cookies off my computer, erase my
collection of naughty voicemail messages and hide my stash of Pentel
think it's a little
bit of both," I tell her honestly.
fact is that I was
plunk in the middle of The
Incredibly Unbelievably Very Very Bad Time
when I first put in for this vacation, more than a month ago. At the
time, I was certain that if I didn't find a way to drop off the planet
for a few days and pull myself together, I was fast on my way to
becoming a tabloid headline. (Deborah Norville: "How
did she snap? Why
did she snap? And why did she take The Main Marketing Guy with her??
Next, on Inside Edition!" )
Things have obviously improved since then -- the dams have burst, the
meds are working, people who annoy the living shidt out of me are
allowed to live again, blah blah blah -- but I'm going ahead with the
Development Manager says, "I hope you and your husband are at least
getting out of town for a while?"
tell her that David
and I are driving up to the Sonoma Valley right after work, as a matter
of fact: the first leg of what we're calling the
*First-Wedding-Anniversary Triathalon O'Fun.* We'll spend tonight in
Santa Rosa -- in an air conditioned hotel room with cable TV and
teeny-tiny bottles of watered-down shampoo -- and then we'll ride
tomorrow morning in the Healdsburg Harvest Ride, my first organized
bike ride. Sunday is the high school reunion. (David's reunion, not
mine. You couldn't pay me enough to go to one of my
high school reunions. And I'm only going to David's reunion because
some famous guy will be there, and I want to try and sell him on
*FootNotes: The Movie.*) Sunday night, after the reunion, is when we'll
actually be able to celebrate the wedding anniversary properly, with a
romantic dinner at the fancy-pants restaurant where David proposed,
followed by a phone-off-the-hook evening at home.
lovely," sighs the BDM. "But what about the rest of the week?"
tell her that the rest
of the week is 'open-ended.' "I'm still working out a few details," I
lie, sounding deliberately vague. "You know ... coordinating schedules,
checking the weather, realigning planets, that sort of stuff." What I
don't tell her, of course, is this: that as far as I'm concerned, my
*real* vacation begins on Monday morning. Once the Triathalon O'Fun is
over -- once I'm all done killing myself riding the hills of
Healdsburg, making polite chitchat with David's former high school
classmates, stuffing myself full of fifty-dollar steak -- THAT'S
when the actual vacation kicks in for me.
I know exactly
how I'm going to be spending it.
going to eat
scrambled egg sandwiches and watch all three hours of "The Matt Lauer
Show," every single morning ... and then I'm going to eat Rice Chex in
bed and watch David Letterman, every single night. I'm going to paint
my toenails an absurd color: *FootNotes Green,* maybe. I'm going to
look at the photo albums from our wedding last year, and listen to the
mix tapes we played during the reception afterwards, and pretend that
this raisin bagel is a slice of our wedding cake. I'm going to go on a
couple of solitary bike rides, without my *coach* there shouting at me
to "Downshift! Downshift!"
I'm going to tear the apartment apart, looking for my stoopid
&$^#! missing black slacks ... and if I can't find them, I'm
going to take the bus to the mall and buy myself a new pair. I'm going
to sit at a bus stop, in the sunshine, and eat dried plums while I wait
for the #51. I'm going to read old Baby Boomer Chat Room logs, mostly
checking to see if
was hitting on any of the early Boomer women. (I don't care if he was.
I just want to see what he was up to while *I* was busy hitting on the
men.) I'm going to color my hair. I'm going to fix my broken
sunglasses. I'm going to "nap on demand." I'm going to rearrange the
books on the headboard: all of his rock biographies and stock market
manuals are moving to the south side of the bed, all of my Anne Lamotts
and self-help manuals are moving to the north. I'm going to drink too
much coffee and watch too much junky daytime TV. I'm going to go one
whole day without saying a word to anybody .. at least, until David
gets home from work that night. Basically, I'm going to be as
unproductive, as undisciplined, as unsociable and as unapologetic as
possible for five blissful days. And I'm going to enjoy the hell out of
myself in the process.
a great weekend,
everybody! I'll be back soon.
throw a rock