Here’s an indisputable sign that you’re not totally ready to go back to work after vacation: you instinctively start to pack some beers with your lunch.
Grunt. See, we had settled into the habit of beginning to drink around 2 p.m. at the latest so, naturally, I thought to myself, “I’ll still be at work at 2,” and reached for the beers before realizing, “That’s not appropriate, dipshit.”
Indeed, the glare of real life is pretty harsh. I did manage to get out of bed at 6:30 this morning. Not because I was excited to get back to the 9 to 5, but because I realized about 30 seconds before falling asleep last night that I wasn’t sure if I had anything to pack for the baby’s lunch. I braced myself for an early morning run to the convenience store (for microwave burritos and Gatorade I guess? maybe some Copenhagen?) but lucky for me there were two slices of bread that were about five minutes away from being stale, so I lovingly slapped some peanut butter on one of them. The baby has placed himself on a strict diet of peanut butter, bread, air, and chaos. It seems to be doing wonders since he’s about six inches around. I should market this new fad, no?