Man. I’m twelve hours from leaving for Nashville, probably seven hours from leaving for work in the morning, and less than 24 from actually arriving in Phoenix.
I just started the last bit of laundry that I have to do before I leave, and …
… I don’t think I could go to sleep in the next half-hour if I tried my dead-level best. I’m about as amped up as I was back in my hockey days; I feel like I should be driving through the night to get to Phoenix or something.
I don’t really, as a rule, take vacations; due to a glitch at work, I haven’t been able to for some time, as I went 60 hours in the hole for vacation by unknown means sometime between the end of the 02-03 hockey season—when I was pretty much at zero vacation time, having burned what little I had left after a taking a week to go on a mission trip in our trips around the country following Charger Hockey—and the end of 2003. I can’t get that glitch repaired, either, because we don’t have paper records at all.
I’ve resisted saying anything about it here for a long time because, well, I wouldn’t know what to do on a vacation anyway. I’ve already talked about taking some work with me. I’ve even thought about tying into Friday morning’s 0900 telecon [which would be 0700 Phoenix time], and the more I think about it, the more likely I am to do it. [Must stop thinking about that NOW.]
But right now … I need a vacation. I could just use a good week at home to do next-to-nothing, but three days with beloved friends who split town three months ago will suffice for now, and over Labor Day, I’ll go bother the other adopted sister and her boyfriend.
[I’m still scheduling myself for a nervous breakdown next July. I’ll be saving up the vacation time, let me tell you.]