At the end of my 2-week vacation to Spain, I was looking forward to going home. I read a great book in the plane and had a beautiful reunion with my dogs. Lying on my own familiar bed again, I felt peaceful and relaxed and happy with my life.
On my commute the next morning I put on some music, opened the windows, and didn’t let the traffic bother me. I walked into the office smiling, refreshed. Then it all went downhill.
My coworkers did not ask me about my trip. They acknowledged that I had been gone, but only to make it clear that it had been an inconvenience for them. I read through my emails, full of passive-aggressive insults and complaints. The tidal wave finally crashed down when my boss came clean and told me that he had not done anything over the last 2 weeks, and we were significantly behind on a project which had to be presented to the client in 2 days.
The last two weeks have been gruesome. I am somewhere between getting an ulcer and checking into a mental institution. I brought people souvenirs, and no one said thank you. I went out with my friends and they didn’t care about stories from my trip. Maybe it’s jealousy. All I can think about is quitting my job and leaving Dallas forever.
This month I have to attend a series of insurance meetings across the country in rapid succession – a blur of airports and lines and employees who don’t want to listen to me because either they hate their insurance or just because it’s an incredibly boring topic.
But in the midst of this chaos and negativity, I was able to steal an hour at the beach this morning. I pulled up, took off my sandals, walked into the water. And just like that, my mind transported itself back to its mentally sane state in Tenerife. My worries evaporated. I breathed deeply, experiencing the world around me, living in the moment.
Just for an hour, then I went back to work.