Same Time Next Year

The rest of the world thinks we're nuts. That's right. Nuts. Countries from Austria to Zambia shake their collective heads in disbelief at a lot of stuff they see us do but one of the things that dumbfound them the most is the limited vacation time allotted to American employees. While other workers on this planet start their employment with three to four weeks vacation time and work their way up to as many as six, we settle for one measly week until that magical one year anniversary at which time we're lucky enough to get handed one more.

This is something our fellow Earthlings can not understand. And I can't say I blame them.

Yesterday, I was walking on the beach in my shorts, sipping a Pina Colada. Today, I'm back to temperatures in the teens, putting away the last of the Christmas decorations. I had seven days to get away. And while it sucks to be back, I know how lucky I am to have had the week I had.

For the first time, my husband and I got the chance to spend seven mostly sunny, laugh-filled, tropical drink-laced days with our six closest friends. The eight of us have shared everything from our own engagements to the weddings of our children. We've been there to support each other through job changes, miscarriages, marital struggles and the losses of parents. This week was a long time coming. And we were going to savor every minute of those seven days.

So maybe that's how we do it. Since we don't have the luxury of three or four weeks off at a time like our European counterparts, we have to be creative about making our time off count. And if you have a group of friends like I do, it's easy. It really wouldn't have mattered if we had hunkered down for a week at the Springfield Holiday Inn (although I have to say that Mexico was a lot prettier and a whole lot warmer). We would have had a blast wherever we went and we would have come back relaxed, recharged and eternally grateful to be blessed with people in our lives that always have had and always will have your back.

And if any of my fellow Earthlings want to see what one puny week away can accomplish, head south of the border next year around this time (oh, yeah, we're doing this again) and watch us in action.

We'll be floating together somewhere in the vicinity of the swim-up bar.

Gonna Soak up the Sun

I've written many times about the phenomenal group of friends I've been blessed to have for the last thirty years. We've been through dating, marriagse, kids, job changes, medical procedures and menopause. We've celebrated our kids' graduations and weddings; we've grieved together over the loss of a parent. I know my memory is going but I honestly can't remember a time when we weren't all happily entangled in each other's business. And I don't want to.

This winter, we're about to find out how much we really like each other. While we've done plenty of evenings out and several weekend trips to exotic places like Brown County, Indiana, the eight of us have never done a full-blown, adults only, we-deserve-it kind of vacation. Thanks to pesky distractions like mortgage payments and our children's educations, we haven't had the time and/or financial resources to do what we've always said we wanted to do - get away to some tropical location, park ourselves under a palapa hut and hang out for a week with nothing more pressing to do than call over that cabana boy for another pina colada.

After weeks of pouring over brochures and trading e-mails, we're finally ready. Deposits have been made, insurance has been taken out, and employers have been notified. We had to wait awhile but it's finally time for us to enjoy the fruits (especially papaya and mangos) of all that labor. So what if  I have to put on a bathing suit to do that. I have a couple of months and a bunch of Walk Away the Pounds DVDs to help me get ready.

And you know what they say. What happens in Mexico . . .