The undoing of every vacation: the day you return.
First there’s the trip home. The checkout at 10AM, with frantic early-morning packing. The eight hours of killing time on a 95 degree day with nowhere to nap the child. The long wait at the airport. The 6PM flight. The over-sugared, under-slept, hyper-stimulated toddler bouncing on her plane seat like it’s a party ride. The layover. The Pinkberry at your gate where they charge you obscene amounts, then stiff you on your granola topping. The late night return. The exhausted drive from the airport. The lack of food in the fridge. The healthy-but-tasteless “emergency” noodle bowls. The supplemental scrambled eggs.
Then the next morning. The jet-lagged wakeup time. The still over-tired, hyper-stimulated, now sugar-withdrawing toddler. The exhausted husband who has to go in to work on a Sunday to make up for what he missed the week he was away. The no breakfast food to be had. The unpacking. The laundry. The pile of mail on the counter. The horror of bills accumulated. The entering of travelling-related receipts into Quicken. The “how did we spend $450 on groceries in a week? At a resort? In South Carolina?” The e-mails to catch up on. The phone calls to return. The re-finance to look over. The tomato plants to triage. The dog to console; (“we didn’t abandon you. We just went on a trip. Stop anxiety shedding!“) The grocery shopping to do. The rug to vacuum. The pizza for dinner. The early bedtime stymied by too much to do.
The blog to catch up on.
It’ll all get normal again. After I rest for a few days. But Jesus. Vacation’s enough to kill you.
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