A suitcase full of little woes? Just call it my vacation

Holidays aren’t so much a journey as they are an evolution

Holidays aren’t so much a journey as they are an evolution. Here’s how mine usually play out.

Day 1: Travel. Actually getting to the vacation spot can often be the most stressful part of the enterprise. Avail yourself of the airline industry and face inevitable delays, crabby passengers stuffing ginormous “carry on” bags into tiny overhead bins designed to accommodate a medium-sized fanny pack. Everything is super-expensive and the only thing worse than crying kids on an airplane is if they’re your crying kids.

Day 2: Settling in. Take stock of the 34 things that have been forgotten including the one-of-akind charger for your electronic device and the sleep toy your kid ABSOLUTELY has to have in order for anyone to get anything resembling real rest. Survey maps for potential alcohol consumption spots and commit them to memory.

Day 3: Vacation mode, part 1. Feel yourself actually, sorta, kinda relax. Only check your

phone 100 times instead of the usual 200. Stop worrying about all the money your spending on dumb stuff like food and trinkets. Have a drink in the early afternoon, then maybe a nap. Find the things your children do mildly endearing instead of mostly irritating.

Day 4: Vacation mode, part 2. Begin plotting how you can spend the rest of your life living this way. Turn off all phone notifications, ponder throwing it in the lake. Take two naps. Realize that shaving is for suckers, as are shoes. Build a kick-ass sand castle with your kids then smash it like Godzilla. Remember that this, these moments of pure enjoyment are what work and money are supposed to achieve.

Day 5: Dread. Realize that there is only one full day of holiday left. Make the stupid mistake of reading your work email and realize there are 50 things you should do. Do 25 of them. Feel guilty about it. Check out bank statement and real estate listings for housing in the area and realize that permanent vacation is not actually an option.

Day 6: Resignation/maximum fun. Last full day, better make the most of it. Do all remaining activities, buy all remaining souvenirs, eat last humongous meal. Squeeze every last bit of enjoyment out of the day. Watch a final sunset. Begin packing.

Day 7: Return to real life. Another travel day that is somehow slightly less awful. A fond farewell to the vacation beard. The happy realization that you can still spend copious amounts of time with your family and really, really enjoy it. The recognition that life, for all its challenges, is pretty damn good.

For at least a week a year.