The end of a vacation is always so bitter sweet. Sure, I’m glad that my cat’s not dead and seems to remember that I’m the guy that feeds him. It’s also nice to be back in my own bed, where my pillow smells like my old gym socks and my wife and I know exactly how to angle the fan for a refreshingly pure and blissful sleep. But that last day of vacation, when I’m back home and unpacking has that awful feeling that Sundays always had when I was a kid.
How can I enjoy today when there’s school tomorrow?
Whenever I get to work after a vacation everyone just seems so content in their office cocoon. I feel like I’m missing out. What do they know that I don’t?
It’s kind of like how growing up, all the other kids seemed to like ‘Winnie the Pooh’, but I found the entire ‘Pooh’ world to be thoroughly depressing. Seriously, 'Eeyore' makes me want to kill myself. I have vivid recollections of watching the cartoons and feeling sad inside. James Taylor has the same effect on me. Some people sit there finding his music toe-tappin’ and smooth, I find it pants-shittin’ and moldy.
And all the 'back-to-school' paraphernalia out there this time of year isn't helping. On top of my current vacation withdrawal, my brain is flashing back to the dismal feeling of wonderful summers coming to a close and returning back to school, where I can get in trouble for speaking English in the halls.
Still, complaining about having a job definitely qualifies as complaining with my mouth full. So I’ll shut up now, as it is rather impolite to talk with my mouth full, even if I’m still not sure whether or not I like the taste, or whether or not this particular mouthful will give me a heart-attack someday. Or make me choke, right now.
I’m still hopeful that in the long run it makes me poop gold.
That’s it. My cubicle calls.
