It’s Monday, that most dreaded day of the week. Worse, it’s the Monday after my week-long summer vacation. I am spared from the back-to-work blues for another day, though, since I don’t work on Mondays (good news: time for trips to Trader Joe’s; bad news: less income to buy food at Trader Joe’s). Last week marked my family’s third annual trip to the Outer Banks. It is without a doubt my favorite week of the year since its inception in 2007. What could be better than seven solid days of the following schedule: sleep in, eat, drink coffee, lie on the beach, drink beer, sit on deck with a cocktail, eat dinner, drink wine, watch a movie while drinking wine, go to bed…all while never applying an ounce of makeup or drying my hair?
The downside of it all is the return to the real world after a glorious break from it. Turns out that New York is as gross now as it was when I left it, if not more so thanks to the ten-degree rise in temperature. Apparently the weather forecasters had the week off too. I walked out of my apartment at 6 pm last night and was immediately greeted with showers on my head. The initial confusion (look up–is it an air conditioning unit leaking? NO!) gave way to meteorologist-hatred as I remembered that weather.com had informed me it wouldn’t rain until 9 pm, and even then the chance was only 40%. So much for preparation.
What I didn’t prepare for was packing for a day that involved something other than lying on a beach. I opened my gym bag that doubled just a few short days ago as a beach bag. Gone were the beer, sunscreen, and copies of US Weekly. All that remained of my week in paradise was some sand scattered at the bottom of the bag. I never can seem to get rid of it all, no matter how much I try each year. And try I do, holding the bag upside down and shaking with all my might, because I know what will happen when I see those grains of bliss. Exactly what happened this morning: my heart plummets, a tear comes to my eye, and I start googling apartments on the shore of North Carolina. But I forged ahead this morning, fresh off my Come To Jesus talk (with Jesus) about vacation and the realizations it rendered: that times like these are a reminder of the heaven we were made for; that the rest gained from time away can serve to give me insight and peace where I am now; that it doesn’t all have to disappear just because the week is over. Yes, it was a very illuminating and comforting talk.
Then I left the apartment without a sports bra on.
I was halfway down the three flights of stairs before I realized something wasn’t quite right. I passed the genial African man mopping the floor as he stood aside for me with a strange grin on his face. The light bulb went off (the high beams were already on) and I turned, red-faced, and climbed the steps I had just descended. Sports bra on; all set. This time, I made it all the way out of the building and around the corner before I realized that I didn’t have my wallet. I briefly considered the possibility that Trader Joe’s might accept boob-peeks as a form of payment (don’t judge–do YOU walk up three flights of stairs to get home?) before I turned around and climbed back to my shoebox in the sky to retrieve my ever-thin money holder. This time, the genial African just looked confused.
I walked down my block and sighed as I spotted the large, well-fed-looking man who wanders the street daily asking for–and I quote–84 cents for a cup of soup. I always was suspicious of him, mainly because I don’t know of a place in this city that sells soup that cheap. I braced myself for the inquiry then did a double-take as I passed him and realized he was TALKING ON HIS CELL PHONE. So far, my research has not found a company that charges less than 84 cents a month for mobile coverage.
This was all before noon. I wonder what the rest of the day will bring. I also wonder which is crazier: the city, or me for living here? I need another vacation.