Why is it that I can sit on my ass for a 7-day vacation in the hot sun and do absolutely nothing but sleep and eat without remorse, but I can’t sit still on my couch for a 2-hour movie without beating myself up with “I should’s?” It’s insane.

I keep whining to myself all week that I need a vacation. In fact, my own home is a very comfortable place for some R & R, if only I could let myself do it.

I just hate those weekends when I want to get things done but need to rest, and I need to rest but can’t because of all the things I need to get done. By Sunday night, neither has been accomplished, and I’m stressed that it’s time to return to work the next morning for another round on the weekly rat wheel.

Some of the conservative Protestants in my home town had a “no-work-on-Sunday” rule. Hypocrisy reigned as they all drove off to their favorite restaurants after church, because Mother shouldn’t have to cook. Their favorite Sunday-afternoon activity was judging their lawn-mowing neighbors loudly from the comfort of their over-stuffed living-room chairs. Maybe it was their twisted way to deal with the guilt of idle time.

Do I really have to pay for a hotel room in a qualified vacation spot to give myself a break?


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