Monday, January 14, 2008 Velasco: The vacation By Diana B. Velasco Grain of Salt
IN THEORY, the days leading to Christmas and the first few of the New Year should have constituted a vacation. In theory and for those two weeks, work grinds to a halt and deadlines become mere entries into a planner, to be eyed with a perfunctory glance or gleefully ignored because other matters (such as shopping for gifts) suddenly become more important. In theory, late nights out and getting entangled in the snarls of traffic become de rigueur, which meant that it was ok if you showed up late for work two days in a row.
I was looking forward to going on vacation during the holidays. But after endless days of partying, my body clock flipped worse than when I flew 12 hours straight. I was too tired and I got sick. And then I realized, I needed a vacation from my vacation.
A vacation is often defined as a time when one can kick back those high heels and put bare feet up, toes expanded, with arms crossed behind one's head and think of absolutely nothing. Unfortunately and whether we care to admit it or not, the holidays do not afford us that kind of relaxation. I spent my days bouncing from one shopping center to the next, panicking at the grocery and then running around to look for the perfect gift for family, friends, godchildren and those acquaintances who had the misfortune of having me as their manita.
Don't get me wrong; I do enjoy purposeful trips to the mall especially when I'm buying for people other than myself. But if one has to do it seven days in a row, anybody would get exhausted. Well, my poor wallet did get tired, although it was still bravely smiling at the end of the day. At the end though, retail therapy is not my definition of relaxation.
My real vacation started when I bid goodbye to my dearest friends and retreated to my room with Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. For three whole days, my entire world was confined to New York in the throes of exploding from the industrial revolution. For three whole days, nothing else seemed to exist but the intelligent characters that were climbing out of the paperback I held in my hands. I became a willing prisoner of the text, lost in the pages, and the stress of the real world seemed mundane, almost non-existent. It was zen.
The great thing about a good book is that you could curl up with it in bed and experience the entire spectrum of emotions - love, hate, anxiety, arousal, excitement, danger and stimulation - and yet have enough self-preservation left to pick up the pieces after the last page. I declare that a good book is much, much better than a part-time lover. And if it is the right kind of book, read at the right time, it could even be a medium for self-introspection that will help you sort out your life. Reading allowed me to plan my next moves after the flurry of the holidays and allowed me to escape and catch my breath before jumping back into the workplace.
Alas, I have been getting the impression that people do not know how to take a vacation anymore. We have been inundated with instant noodles, instant food, google and gadgets that we have forgotten how it is to have a nurturing and stimulating relationship with the written page. In this digital age (think friendster, multiply and facebook), very few human interactions approximate the intense connection when a reader understands the inner workings of an author's soul... a soul, which holds nothing back and produces a novel that tickles the imagination and makes us feel that we are not alone.
My third reading of Atlas Shrugged was my break, my relaxation. In a weird sense, it affirmed my work ethic and gave me a pat on the back for my accomplishments; the greatest of which is remaining hopeful after a tumultuous 2007. My vacation - a thousand-page paperback - was the absolute best way to start the New Year.
And now that my vacation is over, it is time to go back to work. Sniff.
(you may email your comments and reactions to missabsinthe@yahoo.com)
