Every year, no matter what job I have, I make every attempt to take the entire week of Thanksgiving off. It costs 3 days of PTO (if the job has it, which my current one does), and I get an entire week off.
You’d think this was great and wonderful and is an entire week of rest and wandering, but you’d be wrong. Invarably, for me, Thanksgiving vacation is really three weekends crammed together.
First weekend is recovery from the work week, trying to be an adult and do adult things. But all the while, I’m having to plan, prep, pack, and get ready for driving to Texarkana to spend time with family.
Second weekend is spent with family, bookended by driving. Lots of driving. So much driving. And the destination is full of all the allergens and inconveniences and reminders of why I left Texarkana. But I get to spend precious time with my family.
Third weekend is recovery from the travel. First order of business is to wash every thread of fabric I took with me to rid of the smoke, dust, pet hair, mold, whatever. And then sit in a daze in my apartment, woozy from the drive, wondering what I was doing before I was interrupted by a cross-state trip. And then trying to do adult things again while preparing for the return to work in the days ahead.
I tell my mother that going to Texarkana is not a vacation. She laughs and shrugs, and says there’s nobody else she can get to fix this-and-that, or help her clean whatever, and so on. But at least we get to talk and do things and plan meals and visit my sister’s family. So there’s that.
But, y’all, I’m tired.