Yeah! Sit around. Do nothing. Start the day with mimosas and a good book in bed. By myself! Yeah!
When I ended up with a bunch of unused vacation days at the end of the year, it seemed like magic. A gift. Like being a kid at the arcade. When you won a whole bunch of tickets in Skee-ball and went to the gift shop to redeem them. “Look at all the possibilities for them to rip me off!” Troll dolls. Gummy worms. Water pistols. Cheap plastic Army men with parachutes that don’t work. And lots of other things your mom will quickly round up and throw away. The world is magical! How can there be this much joy?
This was how I was feeling about my week off at home.
But we all know the myth about that. How quickly reality sets it, and the time off becomes something else entirely. Because while I might dream of lounging around and reading and working on my Skee-ball skills at some grungy arcade, the truth is my week got filled up with … house projects!
EGAD!!!
I did it to myself. No one else to blame. I front-loaded my time by taking on all manner of things I had pushed off for months. Even years.
“How are you going to spend your week off?” an excited co-worker asked my last day.
“Um … probably falling off the roof,” I told her.
“Oh, that sounds so exciting!” and she was genuine about it. “I wish I was taking some time off to go do something wild and crazy. Are you going to New Orleans or Cabo Wabo or diving off a Hawaiian cliff?”
“Uh, no,” I said. “Literally MY roof! I’m going to fall off MY ROOF. I’m not going anywhere or doing anything. Just a bunch of house projects. And mind you, there are far too many to ever get done. Most of it is ridiculously dangerous and should only be completed by an entire team of professionals. For my own health, safety and mental sanity, I would be better off coming to work.”
“Oh,” she said, unsure of what to say next. “Good luck with that!”
Yeah!
Something about me doesn’t understand what most people DO understand: That time off means “do nuthin’.” It means, recharge. Recuperate. Wake up and drink mimosas in bed. Wear sweat pants all day long. Not fancy sweat pants, like those cool, designer track suits that cost more than a new car. I’m talking ones like the wrestling coach used to wear around your high school. Dirty at the knees and a yellow mustard stain the size of Vermont on his chest.
Oh, if only I had the strength to just sit around all day and eat potato chips and watch soap operas. Fall asleep on the sofa drooling on myself. Not shave until my family shoots me with a bear tranquilizer and gets out the hedge trimmer.
But not me. I’m climbing around in the attic, pulling out old insulation and inspecting the ductwork. I’m painting a desk and going up on the porch roof so I can touch-up some peeling paint. (Shhh! Don’t tell my wife. I’m home alone, and she knows I only go up there on wet and slippery days when I’ll shoot off like a bobsledder.)
I’m going to make a window screen for the bathroom because the current one looks like it tried to stop a semi-truck. I’m going to replace some rotting wood, and re-do some lattice under the house. Because if you don’t have lattice, the dog feels obligated to dig holes under there and eat things the cats left behind.
I’m going to plant some plants, and if the mood strikes me and the time permits, rake 17 tons of leaves that I haven’t dealt with all fall.
I’ve been buying stuff. I’ve been making plans. I’ve been researching and learning how to do things the right way. None of which I’m actually going to follow. Everything tells you how to properly prep for painting or clean something first. I recognize the importance of doing things the right and professional way, but I also figure, what the heck? I’m not a professional. Who am I trying to fool? I’m an amateur with low standards and questionable skills. If I wanted professional work, I would pay for it. So, instead I’ll get the sub-par version after toppling off the roof a couple of times.
I have elaborate to-do lists. They read like this: Paint desk. But first test-paint part of the desk. But don’t do it in an inconspicuous spot like they recommend. Do it right up front. That way when my wife, who doesn’t know I’m painting the desk, sees it she’ll freak out and demand I buy a new desk.
I doubt I’ll get to most of it. I’ll stand around a lot. I’ll look at things for too long and put off trips to the hardware store. I’ll spend endless hours watching how-to videos on YouTube.
Or, maybe I’ll just throw in the towel and take it easy. Sleep in, drink some early-morning mimosas and read some books. Use up my vacation days like they were meant to be spent. Not by falling off the roof or waiting for my wife to come home and take me to the hospital. Maybe I can even find an arcade and hit the Skee-ball. I’ve been needing some of those green Army men with the parachutes that don’t work. Yeah! All of that sure sounds like joyful magic.