I remember taking vacations growing up. I remember the yearly trip somewhere, be it the beach or grandparents or St. Louis or wherever. I remember packing up our conversion van and hitting the road.
Somehow, I didn’t get this gene. I WANT THIS GENE. We have not taken a true “vacation” since 2009, when my parents treated us to a week at the beach. It was AWESOME, and even Tony – who was maybe 18 months at the time – wistfully longs to visit “da beach” again. Before that, it was our honeymoon.
We just cannot travel. We cannot. And it eats me up. I crave fresh air, NEW air, and different food and new textures under my feet. I miss the adventure and my wanderlust just fills me with bitterness and resentment.
But we have a kid in daycare. Another one in private school. We have two car payments. A mortgage. An A/C unit with a deathwish. Crazy, stressful, unrelenting jobs. These things sap most of our resources. And, amazingly, it takes resources to travel.
Summer has hit, apparently. And the travel bug has bitten me. Like, eleventy frillion times, and the itch is constant.
I have a love/hate relationship with interns every summer. Not with any particular intern, not personally, but just with the theory of them in general. I want to gather them all in a room and then tell them, “STAY IN SCHOOL. GET YOUR DEGREE. AND THEN LIVE A BETTER LIFE THAN I DID.” I want them to see the abundant fluorescent lighting here, and how it accentuates the bags under all of our eyes, and how we all walk with our gaze downward. As R said on Twitter, “Take a good look at the people who have been here a long time, and decide if THAT is the person you want to be.”
Now, the great thing is: it could be worse. I love what we’re working for. I believe in what we do. And I like most of the people I work with. But we are a culture, here. A way of life. And you have to wonder if the way of life is worth it, in the end.
Okay, seriously, can we TALK about the whole zombie explosion and the guy eating the other guy’s face off and the woman eating her baby and the weirdo sending dismembered body parts to Canadian government officials? Because, y’all. MEMORIAL DAY USED TO MEAN SOMETHING.
I got up at 4:30 the other morning and met some friends for a sunrise run. It was amazing. Seriously. Since we’re in the throes of summer right now (which, HAHA, is not even the throes of summer, but it feels like a tour through North Hell), running at dawn is about the only time I won’t perish in the heat. And it was lovely.
We weren’t out for time or distance, just wanting to stretch our legs a little. And in not worrying about time or distance, we had a great pace. For over two miles. Which is almost the 5k that I sucked so badly at on Saturday. Which makes me think this running thing is more than just a little mental. Because I could’ve easily finished out another mile yesterday morning for the full 5K course and in WAY better time. Because I didn’t care about time. Or pace. Or distance, even. I just wanted to stretch my legs.
(Thanks, Jennifer and Anita, for the company!)
As if I needed another Mommy Guilt blow to the gut, the only thing Tony has asked for over the past few months is to get back to swim lessons. For some reason – unseen by his momma, who will not put her head underwater – the child loves swimming. He actually can’t swim, but he had made some HUGE strides through the last round of lessons he took. (In .. February, maybe?)
We finally made it over to the YMCA to sign him up for June’s classes, and WHAM!, the schedule has been adjusted for summer. The latest class starts at 5:00. We cannot reliably get away from work in time to get him to a 5:00 pm class.
And it BREAKS.MY.HEART.
So we’re looking into other options, but MAN. 1) I love the YMCA, and would rather spend my money there. 2) That’s where we’ve always gone, and you can’t beat the price. 3) I DON’T NEED ANOTHER THING TO MAKE ME FEEL GUILTY ABOUT NEVER BEING HOME.
Silver lining: apparently, I have whined enough on ANOTHER topic to make a difference.
I am posting this from work.