Time Off for Bad Behavior

Before I get way too self-involved, I want to be sure to wish everyone a very happy new year! I’m still in shock that it’s 2011 and I’m not so old I wear funny shoes and have blue hair. Okay, I do wear funny shoes, and I’ve been known to wear navy blue extensions a time or two, but you know what I mean.

Tomorrow I go back to my day job after a glorious 17-day hiatus. The countdown to reach this event took forever, so I’m wondering why once it occurs, those 17 days seem more like 17 minutes. I’m exaggerating a bit, I know, but my time off always seems to somehow move much more quickly than my time spent in a cubicle.

Prior to being sprung from the joint (make that “going on vacation”) I had plans – big plans. I was going to spend lots of time sleeping late. I was going to get lots of writing done. I was going to clean my house in places I rarely worry about, which pretty much includes any surface not in plain view (since breast cancer I am an advocate of Erma Bombeck’s take on chores: “My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint.”)

And that’s not all. I was going to organize things, visit people, learn something new – maybe even use the hot tub in our complex. I’ve been saying I was going to do that since we moved in last October. Heck, if I could have figured out how to get from our doorstep to the hot tub without anyone seeing me in a swim suit, I would have accomplished two of my goals at once.

I didn’t count the first couple of days because those took place on a regular weekend and I have those (are you ready for this?) once a week. I already know that my plans for the weekend are liable to run amok. Hardly a Friday goes by where I don’t tell a co-worker I’m going to paint, plant, or at the very least pick up something. When Monday arrives and they manage to catch me at the water cooler (okay, we don’t have a water cooler, but they still manage to catch me), I find myself making up all sorts of excuses for my failure to have accomplished anything. It gives us something to commiserate about because it appears not many of us are able to do much more in our spare time than catch up on mundane stuff like laundry, housework and running errands.

So on that Sunday before my first glorious, official day off, I stayed up late. This may shock you, but it was nearly 10:00 pm before my head hit the pillow! Makes you tired just thinking about it, huh? Falling asleep was a piece of cake since I didn’t have all of the things I generally have spinning around in my head. There was no coffee to make, no husband to wake, no shower to take. I fell asleep blissfully thinking about staying in bed until mid-morning.

What’s this? The bedroom is still dark and someone is growling at me. Wait, they are panting too. Since I know for sure it’s not going to be People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, I figure I’d better wake up enough to see what’s going on. Of course, I’m still thinking I will be able to just pull the covers up, roll over and go back to sleep in only a matter of moments. WRONG!

Someone forgot to tell my dog Lulu that we are on vacation. She is a creature of habit, and since we’ve been going for an early morning walk every morning in recent memory, she’s ready. Not only ready, but if my sleep-addled eyes are to be believed, she is crossing her hind legs, puckering and pointing at the door.

So much for my plans to sleep in. Truthfully, that’s not such a big deal because I can take a nap later. The only problem with taking a nap later is it means I won’t be doing something I thought I should or would be doing, since napping wasn’t something I’d factored into my days off. And I don’t know about you, but the older I get, the weirder my napping experience becomes. As a kid, I would sleep for hours at any time of day or night and wake up raring to go. Nowadays, if I sleep more than 20 or 30 minutes I wake up not knowing whether it’s day or night or where I am. Pity the poor husband who happens upon me when I first wake up, because even the most innocent, “Do you feel rested?” is apt to be met with a “What do you mean, do I feel rested? Do I look like I feel rested? Did I need to look like I feel rested? Do these bags under my eyes make me look fat??” There is no way he’s going to come out ahead.

Let’s cut to the chase. By day number 8, I’d managed to sleep until 6:00 am once. By day number 12, I’d seen two movies (if you haven’t done so yet, treat yourself to The King’s Speech). On day number 15, I had dinner with friends I hadn’t seen in several years, and on day number 16, I managed to get enough laundry done to have clothes to wear on my first day back at work.

So here I am in the last hours of day number 17, wondering where all of my time went, not to mention my good intentions. I guess I should be relieved that I’m heading back to work tomorrow, because it appears that is the only place I’m going to be able to get any shut-eye!