In addition to a bad temper and a tendency to hold a grudge, I inherited from my family the workaholic gene. And hilariously, being a bit of a whiner, I make it worse. I burn myself out and then become resentful as if it wasn't my own fault to begin with.
I am bad at vacations. I worry about money. I worry about how it will look if I take time off. I worry about a lot of stupid crap that keeps me from taking the holidays I need and deserve. But no more! Part of Project Good, which involved me finally refusing to continue doing soul-crushing and morally vacuous professional work (journalistic and otherwise) in addition to many other things I won't get into now, is regular vacations. And Nathan (the man, not the fish) and I are going on one now. Right now.
In less than 24 hours time, we are off to Cuba. We've found a little hotel, right on the beach, designed by a group that specializes in eco-tourism. Nathan is happy because of his Marxist tendencies and because he feels it's relatively ethical to go to Cuba (as opposed to somewhere like the Dominican), and I am happy because I get to read while lying in the sun soaking up the Vitamin D. Life could be worse.
Sometimes, I try to call up other memories from that time, but most of it has faded, as things tend to. Or I've blocked it out. It's hard to say. I wonder if I will forget this trip too, ten years from now. It feels different, so maybe I won't. That was a desperate attempt to make the best of a thing that had gone bad. Like eating around the edges of something rotten at the core. This is different. Nathan is infectiously happy, bouncing around like a little kid in anticipation. I'm more subdued. Then again, we carry different sorts of weight. A decade's worth of difference.
But in the grand scheme of things, four years isn't such a long time, is it? Even ten can seem to pass in no time at all.