My family recently enjoyed a fantastic one-week vacation. Upon returning, our lives plunged into 50 weeks of prolonged hell. Why do we subject ourselves to the post-vacation blues? Instead, try my epiphany, which turns the tables on the vacation paradigm.
Why do we spend so much money on elaborate vacations? I know you only live once (or so the rumor goes), and that there are miraculous sights and scenes to behold. But holy cow, vacations cost a bundle, and I’m not just talking about financial pain.
No, I’m referring to the emotional and psychological wreckage that results from the post-vacation blues.
My family returned from a tremendous week in sunny California, where the sun always shines, the beaches are always open, and mosquitoes have not yet been invented. It was a magical week, in which every conversation seemed to return to the eternal question, “Why do we live in Wisconsin?”
Upon returning to the land of cheese and frozen everything, that question was asked with far less whimsy, and resulted in far greater depression.
For the next 50 weeks, we slumped around our abode, thinking about California, looking at pictures of California, and even dressing like we were in California. (Shorts and sandals in the midst of twenty below wind chills is not only denial, it’s damn stupid.)
Finally, it was time for another vacation, and everyone prepared for another trip West. And that’s when my latest epiphany cancelled our flight.
“Change of plans, folks,” I declared to the family. “Instead of going someplace nice, we are going to experience seven days of misery.”
I explained the only way to break the vacation blues was to get further down in the dumps. Or in this case, the dump.
My wife and children put up a big fuss. There was much screaming, kicking, and I believe someone even hurled a piece of furniture at my privates. But eventually, I got everyone into the minivan and we headed out for a week at the county landfill.
I had booked us a spot amidst the filth and rubble, just next to a pile of discarded syringes and amidst some rotting couch cushions. We lived amidst this squalor for a week, sifting through the landfill for sustenance, and fighting off dive-bombs from scavenging seagulls.
During the week, there was no talk about wretched Wisconsin. Instead, my kin only discussed how wonderful home was, and how much they preferred their beds over rotting heaps of filth.
When we returned home, I hosed off the fam, and they wept and kissed our floors and their beds, damned appreciative of the home that had suddenly become a palace.
“Promise we’ll never go on vacation again,” the family begged of me.
I had thought of visiting war zones and impoverished nations, but the family chained themselves to their respective bedframes.
The 50-week vacation was borne, and now I’ve decided to open up my own travel agency. I’ll set your family up with the most horrible vacation you can possible imagine.
The name of the agency? “Red Slipper Travel.” Tagline: “Vacations to remind you there’s no place like home.