This past week I went on a splendid vacation to south Florida. I don’t say that being sarcastic or facetious. It was a great trip and thanks to my job and all the frequent traveler points I get, I didn’t have to pay for the hotel or rental car to get there.
The weather was perfect, the beaches were pristine, my kids were for the most part very well behaved and my wife even looked damn fine in her bikini. But after 12 hours of driving each way and seven straight days with my wife and kids, I am exhausted. I want to run for the hills.
Family is a tough proposition for me. I struggle with all this dependence these three girls have on me. I struggle with having so little free time, so little time to think or just be quiet with myself.
My wife asked me recently when I’ll quit my current job, which requires I travel four days a week about three weeks of each month on average. She would like me to take a job that keeps me home. She asked me how I stood dealing with packing, getting on airplanes, endlessly switching projects and getting a completely new boss, set of teammates and place of work every four months or so.
I smiled at her and said I’d look into it but in my mind, how can I ever leave my job? It is my only refuge, my only source of sanity and peace. It is the cornerstone that keeps me intact, the pressure release valve that makes it possible to endure the stress of living with three females.
My job is my legitimate permission to run the hell away a few days and come back renewed.
Is this why history is littered with tales of men running off to war, sailing off into the sunset on long voyages or volunteering to partake in long exhibitions that take them far away for months or even years on end?
Perhaps I am not as much of a monster as I feel I am. Perhaps, I am just your run of the mill, red blooded, bearded and hairy chested man.
Perhaps it is now time to go crack open a cold beer, put on some headphones and block out the fuzz for a while.