Sadly, she was wrong.
I hate returning from vacation, but not because a trip is over, or my tan fades. No, I hate returning from vacation because—within 48 hours—it feels as if the vacation never actually happened. In Costa Rica, we rented a house with my sister in law and her kids. We sat on a hammock, swam in a pool, waded through the ocean. We smashed open coconuts and ate termites (really, we did) and gazed out upon the most gorgeous sunset ever. We spoke Spanish and went zip lining and kayaked down a wondrous river.
At least I think we did.
We returned to the United States last Thursday. And yet, it seems to be five years ago. I’m again in Starbucks. I’m again stressing over a book proposal. I’m again trying to plan activities for the kids. I’m again staying up until 2 am, then groggily rising five hours later. The patterns and rhythms of day-day-day regular existence have not merely returned; they’ve consumed me, and deleted much of the blissful joy of Costa Rican life.