The first time I had vacations was because my supervisor ordered me to take five consecutive vacation days, as per law. I had been working more than a year without taking one single vacation day.
I’m the kind of person that, besides going to work with the annual cold/flu, once went to work with a recently dislocated finger. I dislocated my left middle finger during Aikido morning practice and I went to work a second shift with the finger looking like a big purple sausage that I couldn’t move.
So this week I did something that is certainly not in my nature. I took two weeks of vacations.
My belly is pretty much bigger than me at this point and as weeks go by it gets harder to maneuver around daily life.
It got particularly uncomfortable to drive an hour to and back from work through the heavily curvy route. My feet began to swell to a spectacular degree making it nearly impossible to walk any decent distance without me wincing with each step. My back (which has three different deviations) is doing it’s part too.
Everyone began to beg me weeks ago to stop working because they could see what I was going through and I kept telling everyone that I was fine, I could work a couple more weeks, I could wait. Reality hit me hard the other day when after getting dressed and driving two minutes to my in-laws house all I wanted to do was lay down in bed to rest. From a two minute trip.
I felt like I was giving up when I called to explain that it was physically impossible for me to fulfil my duties at work. I cried. Who cries because they get days off work?!
Now, a couple of days later, I feel completely different. I have so many, much more important things to take care of. So many tiny things to sort through.
In fact, I’m staying home to take care of the very most important thing in our lives, which is my most important duty.