It's Not a Vacation, it's Just Time Off
Doing as little as possible while still doing too much
I’m supposed to be in Mexico right now.
The hotel was reserved, the flight was booked. Pippa was even going to join me! I could feel the warmth of the sun on my skin as I watched it glow into a deeper shade of brown. I could feel the coarse grains of salt on my lips and taste their salty goodness with every sour sip of margarita. With every inhale of the tropical sea air, I could imagine the sense of peace that would invade my body … with every exhale, physically feel the stress releasing, the tightness in my chest lessening, the calmness washing over me. I could visualize my geriatric dog living her best life in the desert heat, replacing her usual gaze of disappointment at me with one of love and contentment, as she believed we would never have to return to the cold urban world we had called home.
But yeah, that isn’t happening.
Life got a bit, well … lifey … and I decided it would be best to cancel the trip. (note: cancellation completely unrelated to the TSA and corresponding travel fiascos, but for the record, fuck Trump).
So while the vacation was off, I decided to keep the time off from work on the schedule. I was exhausted, burnt out, overwhelmed, and depleted. I knew that I couldn’t wait for the “right time” to do a reset on a tropical beach somewhere. I needed the time off, and I was going to take it.
And in the most on-brand thing about me, I’ve spent most of the week feeling like I failed at this break.
Even on my first day off, I had a panicked vision of myself on the Sunday before returning to work, not only filled with the typical Sunday scaries but also a mess of disappointment for wasting the time I was afforded to relax and do nothing. I was kicking myself for being overscheduled (doctors’ appointments! theater tickets! a spa day!) while at the same time, annoyed I wasn’t being more thoughtful about a NYC staycation (really? no time for museums? the botanical garden? exploring different neighborhoods? time in the park in still freezing weather?). Or worse, that I wasn’t being more productive with my time (I didn’t read five books? write five Substack posts? eat at 10 new restaurants? go to a dozen networking events? work out every day?).
I’m not sure why I should care if, during my time off, I sleep in until 11 a.m. and sit around on the couch all day. If I wanted to take an entire week to watch the entire run of Friends, that would be just fine, right? It’s time off, not time on.
The truth is, it’s not hard to trace some of the home-based time off doom back to recent periods when I was unemployed. Sure, I didn’t have a job to show up for each day. But I did have a very very very real job, the work more important and urgent than anything I had ever done up to that point in my life: finding a new job. Networking like crazy. Applying to anything remotely related to my skill set. Getting out there and hustling and never resting until that next paycheck is secured.
I’m guessing that a lot of the sense of doing the wrong thing while staying at home and not working this week ties back to these times, even though I am currently employed and even getting paid for taking the time off (what a concept!). Like other traumas in my life, I imagine this sense of dread lessens over time. Outside of the holidays (which are a blur of carbs and alcohol and naps and Elf), this is the first time I’ve had more than a three-day weekend at home since moving back to New York City.
It took me until Thursday to finally tell myself to get over it. Maybe it was buying a great new pair of sunglasses that cost way too much money when I took myself out shopping. Maybe it was the glass of wine I treated myself to over lunch. Maybe I was just fed up with my shit, my ridiculous expectations that would never be met, and with being stressed out during the rare time off I was supposed to use to become less stressed out.
My break from work may be nearing the end, but I am finally embracing the ability to do nothing — and to feel no guilt over it. I’m so over the whole hustle culture and being bombarded with messages that I need to be working on top of working on top of working to achieve my best life. You know what, fuck that. Today, my best life is not setting an alarm to get up in the morning. Not showering and having no idea how many days it has been since I washed my hair. Still sipping my morning cup of tea at 5 p.m., preparing to replace it with a glass of wine, water be damned.
Don’t worry, I promise a tropical getaway will be a part of my very near future. With a little luck, Pippa will be there, too.
While Grammarly was used to improve the writing of this post, AI was not used for content creation.