The story of my job stress is the same as those of any other moderately successful professional. Not only do my employees – and my bosses – expect for me to check my Blackberry every five minutes, even on weekends, but I have a long commute into the city. I make just enough money to make me feel middle class on some basic level, but not enough to actually enjoy it.
This winter, we’ve had snow in just about every state in America. Even my parents down in Arizona have been snowed upon this season. After Christmas a few weeks ago, as I was scraping the ice from my windshield, was struck by a sudden realization. I didn’t want to go to work. I didn’t want to go to work that day, nor the next week. Nor the week after. This wasn’t necessarily a crisis – I’ve earned the vacation time, and the small company would explode without me keeping everything together. I knew what I had to do. I took out my Blackberry, text messaged my secretary to call in sick, and then began scanning for flights to Tenerife.
The low prices flabbergasted me. One of the up-shots of being a working man in a horrific economy is that guys like me can jet around the world using the money that I dig out from behind the couch. I picked a flight for the following day and reserved a hotel room as part of the package deal.
I opened up my car door and put my ice-scraper back into the glove compartment. Then, I headed back into my house to start packing. I felt at ease, in control of my life. I contemplated leaving my Blackberry behind – just so I could enjoy the sound of the waves smacking against the sand of the Canary Islands without worrying about the rude vibration of my mobile against my hip signifying another round of office drama – but I ultimately lacked the courage.
Blessedly, now that I’m tapping in this post from a seaside café, sipping espresso infused with some sort of strange booze, I have the damn thing on silent. When I’ve gone sailing, at least, the service is patchy. I preface my e-mail to my fellow office drones stuck in my old time zone: “Sorry I didn’t get your message, I was out on a catamaran with my new petite amie, Bridgitte.”
"Elle s'appele Bridgitte." My high school French was just enough to make my Canary Island vacation that much more fun.
The glowers that I’ll get when I return to the office will be more than made up for by the gloating I can enjoy now.
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