You know that glorious, giddy feeling when you’re heading out on vacation? That “I’m about to become a new person who doesn’t answer emails and feels completely free of life” kind of energy? Yeah. That person is gone now. She was radiant. She had SPF in her soul. She believed in naps and mid-morning cocktails because it’s always 5 o’clock somewhere.
Now? I am a shell of a human who walks around the house spraying the hotels signature scent hoping all the amenities are in that little bottle.
I have a vacation hangover—and no, I’m not just talking about the lingering effects of drinking obnoxiously strong Mai Tais that came with pineapple on the rim and flowers in the drink. I mean the full-body grief that sets in when you trade paradise for your inbox.
Symptoms include:
- Trying to greet your boss in the office with a “mahalo” and a shaka sign.
- Checking your suitcase to see if sand and happiness are somehow still in there.
- Wondering why no one brought you a piña colada at 10am. Again.
I had big plans, people. I was going to bring vacation-me home. She was going to cook more, stress less, and somehow figure out how to infuse paradise into her everyday life. She was going to Marie Kondo her life. She was going to do all the things on her list and live every day like it was a cruise buffet breakfast.
Instead, I came home and immediately fell face first into month end at work and a folder with 100 invoices to be entered.
The worst part is how fast it happens. One minute you’re floating in a pool with no idea what day it is. The next, you’re in traffic being tailgated and cut off by an idiot who wants to exit from the left lane at 75 mph.
I unpacked my suitcase and found:
- Three swimsuits
- A full bag of laundry
- And my dignity – still on vacation apparently
Here’s the thing: I love traveling. I love escaping. But re-entry into regular life should come with some kind of emotional parachute. Maybe a transitional period where I still get breakfast buffets and someone else makes my bed while I sob softly into a beach towel.
I’ve considered writing a letter to my vacation destination. Something like:
Dear Paradise, I miss you. I miss waking up to the sound of waves instead of construction in my neighborhood. I miss tan lines and fruity drinks. I miss housekeeping. Take me back…please? I can change. But until teleportation becomes a thing, I’ll just be here. Drinking sad weak rum and cokes. Scrolling back through vacation pictures every five minutes looking for that feeling. Searching for flights I can’t afford.
And maybe… just maybe… shaking the sand out of my shoes and smiling a little. Because even though the vacation is over, the stories, and the glow? Those stay with me.
Forever. Or at least until the next trip.
Lesson Learned: Next time, schedule an extra day off after you get back. Or just move to the beach and open a hammock store. Either way.
Blessings Y’all – Amy
