Harder Than I Thought

Vacations are a wonderful thing . . . until they're over. You spend months planning them, waiting for them, anticipating them - and then they're over before you know it. In other parts of the world, it's not uncommon for even entry-level workers to get four to six weeks of downtime but in our neck of the woods, most of us have to settle for a measly two weeks a year to recharge our batteries. Just when we start to relax, it's time to head back to reality and, as everyone knows, that is highly overrated.

My family never took a holiday longer than a week at a time when our kids were little; it was always impossible to pry their dad away from his demanding job for any longer. We always tried to squeeze a lot of fun into that week but it was never long enough to truly unwind. I always swore that someday we would get away for two or three weeks at a time and really get the chance to decompress and get reacquainted with one another. Well, that day has finally come. And you know what?

It isn't any better.

At the risk of sounding incredibly greedy and infuriatingly ungrateful, I'm having a really rough time coming back from the amazing trip to Europe my husband and I were lucky enough to take. We spent more than three weeks exploring Italy, France, and Switzerland by bus, train, cable car, and ship. We celebrated a birthday (his) and an anniversary (ours) by climbing mountain peaks and strolling through scenic valleys. We ate meals I didn't have to clean up after and slept in beds I didn't have to make. We saw something new and exciting every day and never once did I have to run to the grocery store, pay a bill, or fix a leaky faucet. Except for missing my little grandson like crazy (thank God for Skype), it was heaven.

And then it was over.

Back to work and sweeping the crumbs off the kitchen floor. Back to laundry and figuring out our Obamacare options. Back to beds I have to make and meals I do have to clean up after. And worst of all, back to a rapidly approaching winter. Yuck.

I know I'm the luckiest person on the planet to have been fortunate enough to have taken a trip like this in the first place. I know that I should follow that Dr. Seuss adage to not be sad that it's over and just be glad that it happened. I know that I have to get my butt off a pity pot I have no right to be on and snap out of it but I can't seem to stop asking myself this question:

How long do I have to wait before I can do it again?

Not Fearing the Worst

I've never been what you might call a brave person. I watch in awe as people schuss down mountains at warp speed, jump off bridges with nothing separating them from certain death but a giant rubber band, and get behind the wheel of a vehicle going three times the legal speed limit. After a lifetime of walking on the safe side of the street, it's a pretty safe bet that I'm not going to morph into some kind of risk-taking daredevil just because I have fewer years ahead of me than behind me. That would be too much to ask. No, all I can reasonably hope for is that I will stop giving fear the power to keep me from doing something I really want to do.

It's funny how many of those "getting out of your comfort zone" moments come while you're on vacation. Stepping away from your daily routine presents you with a boatload of opportunities to push yourself into uncomfortable territory. All of a sudden para-sailing sounds like a great idea and dining on grilled octopus sounds preferable to a perfectly seared New York Strip.  Oh, sure, you can grab a Big Mac while walking down the Champs E'lysee or hire a driver with an air-conditioned car to show you the sights you could explore on your own but chances are you'll regret it if you do.

On the fabulous winter getaway I wrote about last week, I went snorkeling. A non-swimmer and fearful of deep water, I was determined not to let that stop me from joining my friends on their afternoon excursion. Seeing the tiny boat that was going to transport us out to the reef, I almost bailed. Learning that I would have to jump off the side of said boat into the open sea was almost a deal breaker (I don't know how else I thought I was going to get in with those damn fins on my feet) but, with the help of my very supportive friends and an amazingly patient guide, I did it.  I freaked out a few times and swallowed enough sea water to earn a set of gills but when it was all over, the rush of having conquered one of my most deep-seeded fears stayed with me for the rest of the day and even now is helping to convince me I'm not quite the wuss I thought I was.

So, what now? What scary activity will my new-found maturity and wisdom enable me to cross off my "To Don't" list next? Sky-diving? White-water rafting? Bungee jumping?

If I were you, I wouldn't bet on any of the above. I may be trying to conquer a few fears but I'm not crazy.

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 . . .

Be Italian

When you're getting back into the swing of things after a long vacation, you've got to appreciate the small pleasures of being back home. And since this wasn't exactly a pampered beach getaway complete with limitless drinks adorned with colorful paper umbrellas, I'll admit to being grateful that I'm back in the land of escalators, inexpensive restaurants and no-smoking signs. I'm also glad to have returned to reality just as my favorite season gets ready to make an appearance. Our last big trip ended in October which made facing the prospect of a Chicago winter an added hurdle to getting over the "home-from-vacation-blues". Spring getaways make for a softer return landing.

So, after getting used to eating nothing but fresh, cooked-from-scratch meals loaded with colorful fruits and vegetables for weeks, I'm determined to keep the magic going. I'm making salads every night, complete with homemade dressing and have gotten into the habit of serving small glasses of sparkling water (I think it's mandatory at every meal but breakfast in Europe) and slightly larger glasses of red wine with every dinner. We've kept the pasta thing going but have now thrown grilled fish or chicken into the mix. Tonight, we split a grilled steak with Caprese salad and sauteed potatoes and mushrooms. We're trying to eat as many meals as we can on our deck (it may not have a view of the ocean but it is pretty peaceful). We listen to the birds, talk, and keep the television off as much as possible (yes to the Hawks' playoff games; no to "The Bachelorette").

Maybe that's the secret. Maybe vacations are supposed to help you figure out the secrets to living the other fifty weeks of the year. They shake up your routine, expose you to other cultures' ways of doing things and give you some insight into what's really important to you.

We may not be able to live our lives on vacation but no one can stop us from bringing a little of our vacations into our lives.

I Want to be Rick Steves

Well, loyal readers, I've procrastinated long enough. After an amazing three week trip to Europe, it's time for me to get back to real life and that includes this humble little forum for my earth-shattering observations about life after motherhood.

After that kind of break, I'm here to tell you that there are some perks to a life sans children. You don't have to plan your trips around school holidays. You can walk around historic sites for hours without hearing anyone say, "I'm tired" or "Are we there yet?" (Although I think I might have muttered both of those on our four hour hike from Monterosso to Vernazza). And you can drink as much wine as you want to without worrying about embarrassing yourself in front of your offspring.Your husband, however, may be forced to occasionally pretend he has no idea who you are.

Our hastily put together trip was designed to be a celebration of our 30th anniversary and our (gulp) 60th birthdays coming up later this year. We originally thought about waiting until the fall but when a good deal presented itself, we jumped on it and decided to treat ourselves early (you know, the old "Who knows if we'll be around in six months" argument - the one I drag out quite regularly when I'm trying to justify spending money we probably shouldn't spend).

Anyway, before we knew it, the trip turned into a twenty-three day marathon (what can I say, it was cheaper to fly on Tuesday) visiting over twenty cities by train, bus and ship. We climbed more stairs than Rocky Balboa and visited more churches than the Pope. We schlepped our luggage over cobblestone streets, dragged them up dozens of flights of stairs (including one narrow nightmare of a circular staircase that should have been put out of its misery years ago), and subjected ourselves to a level of physicality that would have challenged Jillian Michaels. And you know what? Now that we're back, I can tell you one thing.

I want to do it again.  Soon