It’s T-minus five days until vacation, and my legs and arms are restlessly pulsing along to the tune of the cicadas. It’s all I can think about.
My highly scheduled existence consists of work schedules, school schedules, and deadlines. My grocery lists are categorized into four columns where I systematically tick off each item as it lands in my cart. I write menu plans, fill out calendars, and make to-do lists: Lists of things I want to do. Lists of things I have to do. Lists of things I want other people to do.
Each July, the cicadas emerge in the Midwest to sing me their song. It might be loathsome to some, the monotonous hum/chirp/shriek of the cicadas, but to me it’s a war cry: “Time for vacation!” they seem to be saying. “Pack up your bags!”
Does it seem that everyone I know is clogging my social media feed with photos of their impossibly happy family, photographed mid-laugh and wearing large sunglasses, in sun-drenched photos in front of ancient landmarks from Italy or France? Yes, it appears that way. But I’m not going to allow myself to feel even a little bit jealous. In fact, I’m happy for them.
I read somewhere that nearly half of U.S. workers who have paid time off typically don’t even use all their vacation days. Americans take fewer vacations overall compared to other countries. I can’t wrap my head around that. Who wouldn’t take vacation time when it was offered?
I am fortunate to have a job that gives me paid time off. I know many don’t have that privilege. I am using those days off to rest and relax, and hopefully refill my emotional cup with a fresh supply of creativity and perspective and patience. It will take me at least a day to unwind, a day to feel guilty for all the responsibilities I’m shirking, a day to miss home, and then, finally, I will settle fully into vacation mode. I will lose track of time and start to convince myself that quitting my job is a viable option. I’ll dream of living full-time in my camper, traveling from beach to beach in a bohemian existence wearing only sandals and tie-dye dresses. My nomadic life would most likely be supported by pottery I’d sell at local street fairs. Never mind that I don’t know the first thing about pottery. It’s my dream.
Then, it will be time for vacation to end.
My destination is the most beautiful shoreline in the world: Lake Michigan. I won’t need an airplane to get there; just a tank of gas. I’ll be just over a hundred miles from home, but it will feel like another planet.
For five days and nights, our teardrop camper will be parked at the beach. I plan to wear shoes only when necessary. Due to uneven application of sunscreen, I will undoubtedly come home splotchy and red from unevenly applied sun tan lotion. There will be sand between my toes and in my hair. The days will smell like waves and sunscreen, and nights will come cloaked in an intoxicating perfume of mosquito spray, smoke, and the burnt sugar smell of marshmallows accidentally set on fire. I will become an expert at identifying trees that are the perfect distance apart for attaching a hammock. I solemnly promise to read too many chapters of some trashy novel about a doomed romance.
I will eat foods that don’t require silverware. “Doing dishes” will consist of tossing paper plates into the trash. I will walk more than I will drive, and when I do drive, I will stop at each and every roadside farm stand to buy peaches and blueberries and sweetcorn. I will make small-talk with strangers and ask them where they’re from. There will be no hurry to adhere to a schedule or a list or a calendar. For five glorious days and nights, it’s a sweet vacation dream. For weeks, all I’ve done is daydream about it. For the week afterward, all I’ll do is reminisce. People may have to snap their fingers to get my attention. Things will be left half done. Or maybe completely undone.
Vacation should be an inalienable right. Each person on this earth needs and deserves a vacation, when the hard work of day-to-day drudgery is rewarded with days off with no agenda and no cares. Responsibility fades away. Time is suspended, for a little while. T-minus five days until this sweet dream becomes lightning in a bottle, something I will pursue, then hold at arm’s length, feeling the warm glow on my face.
Vacation, I’ve dreamed of you. You are real. So precious. So fleeting. Here I come.
