Vacation

I’m not really sure I know how to vacation.  This may be, in part, because I live a life in which, arguably, one can never quite tell whether I’m already not out of the office, both literally and metaphorically.

Point taken.

But even given that, it’s unclear to me what being off entails.

I still do my daily yoga practice; in fact, I feel an even greater sense of urgency to do the full series since I’m not having to be somewhere soon after I’m done.

I can’t help but feel I ought to do at least a little writing on a regular basis, even if that amounts to little more than navel-gazing pieces like this.

And I never quite fully refrain from thinking about this which, as a philosopher, is pretty much my full time job anyway.

So, what does it mean to be on vacation, anyway?

I suppose sitting around the pool, which I’m planning on doing directly, counts strongly in favor of it.

And, presumably, cocktails with the family at sunset, which we engaged in last evening, is a marker, as well.

Traditionally, beer for breakfast, or, more pointedly, a pina colada before noon was a sure sign of being off.  Perhaps I can indulge in one or both of those before the day is out.

I’m reading a Stephen King book, The Tommyknockers, instead of the William Faulkner novel I brought along; I guess that counts, too.

And finally, instead of the standard 327-word essay, I’m cutting this one short at under 260.

Vacation, indeed!