I have it. I have it bad. It’s that despondent, sullen, “I hate my work, my life, and my dog” feeling of coming home from a vacation. And, that knowing feeling that now begins the long, painful wasteland of NOT-Vacation.
Not-Vacation starts as soon as you step into the car for the airport cattle call. Suddenly nobody cares that you booked the “All Inclusive Super Deluxe Pampered Princess Package with Ocean View.” Then you arrive home and there is no friendly housekeeping staff waiting to turn down your bed, no bellman to carry in your bags, and nobody to fold up the socks you left on the floor and turn them into dainty little sock and towel elephants on the edge of your bed – don’t even get me started on the pillow chocolates!
The worst part of Not-Vacation? No beach butler service! What is this low rent shit?! I had to walk my own (slightly bigger now after eight days of gluttony) behind over to the fridge for a limeless Corona. And, do you know what happened when I finished? Nobody came to take it away or even asked if “that will be all?”.
I flagged down management but he just gave me an angry scowl and asked if I’d moved the whites from the washer and turned on the dryer.
TripAdvisor will hear about this!