It's been exactly a week of vacation, and I have now hit that point of shame. It's 1:40 and I am just now eating lunch after having had a leisurely breakfast with Lauree, reading for an hour and a half, and taking a nap. I have not done anything productive.
My husband has spent the past 4 hours on the couch. When, in horror, I ask him how he feels, he exclaims, "Great! I love vacation!"
I always go into vacation with high hopes of accomplishing great things: going to the gym regularly, grading all my papers, reading dozens of books, reconnecting with all my old friends. I'd return to work a skinny, organized, well-read social butterfly.
But in my other life at work, I grumble that I can't stay at home and vacillating between napping and reality television. I just can't be satisfied.
When I actually muster up the laziness to do sit around, I feel extreme guilt that I haven't saved a small child or redecorated our bedroom, both worthwhile things in my opinion.
Anyway, I ended up feeling like such a waste that I unloaded the dishwasher. I figured if the machine did all the work, I could at least put the dishes away. But this has reduced me to cursing the stupid thing for not actually washing our dishes. Instead, it has distributed the gunk from our plates to our cups and knives, forcing me to wash everything by hand. I'm not sure why we even use the darn thing anymore.
OK, Joel is now ready to move around. We're going to the gym and to run some errands and then I'll complain that I'd rather be at home watching reruns of What Not to Wear.