Can’t We Just Tap Out for a Year?

I need a reset. Or a very, VERY long break from real life. Like a life sabbatical. Do those exist?

Can’t you feel this photo?

A weekend—even a long weekend—is nothing. It simply isn’t sufficient to rest, recharge, and reset. The decision fatigue never relents on days that end in Y.

I simply don’t want to think, plan, decide, schedule, cross-off, call again, reschedule, double-check, arrange, drive, plan, plot, pay, or choose any choice at all for a long, long while.

I want a big, fat pause button. I want to tap out for a year.

A big pause button. Yessss.

You’re just stressed. You need to take a breather. Go relax. Take a bath and a nap. Or both. Maybe a massage.

I say this to myself knowing full well it’s total bollocks.

I’m not a bath taker. I don’t self-soothe with wine. And if I’m being honest, I have to be in the mood for chocolate. (Nutella notwithstanding).

Out there in the world, there are all these “woman” memes seeking retail therapy or bubble bath decor or a nipple to fasten onto a bottle of three buck Chuck… that’s just not me.

That probably means I have to turn in my woman-card, right?

My idea of bliss isn’t a flowy white sundress and a barefoot stroll on the beach with my long wavy hair flying free.

• First of all, my hair is uncooperative. Full stop.

• Long dresses are always too long for my short frame unless I have them altered which usually costs as much as the dress itself.

• And barefoot is no bueno for my plantar fasciitis.

It’s midlife. Let’s get real.

No, for me, bliss hits differently.

• It’s a full night of sleep without an alarm or the neighbor’s rodent dog waking me.

• It’s shapewear that prevents the chub rub of my inner thighs but doesn’t sausage me up top.

• It’s having a great meal I didn’t cook, served by 5:30, so I have time to properly digest it.

• It’s sitting cross-legged on my best friend’s couch, makeup-less, contact-less, bra-less, and laughing about stuff only we find funny or interesting or interestingly funny.

No wine needed. No baths run. Absolutely zero decisions to make.

Am I just turning into a grumpy old crone?

I used to want stuff. But, now I don’t. I’m sort of over shopping. I’m not interested in redecorating my house. My cars are fine. I am not burning to buy anything, acquire anything, show off anything. Status symbols are irrelevant to me at this point.

• I worry on the daily about my parents and my in-laws.

• I worry about my old dog.

• I worry about my kids in a quickly changing economy, and what jobs (if any) there will be for them in the next decade.

• I’m annoyed that my HRT hasn’t helped me shed any of the perimenopausal weight that has found its stubborn way onto my middle.

• I’m mildly worried about that herniation in my back that my chiropractor said would eventually become a problem, especially since my right leg has a daily sciatic ache.

• I’m mainly just tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep can fix.

Just… weary.

I’m tired of the grind and the reaching and the striving. I’m tired of trying to prove my worth professionally. I’m tired of AI bots reading my credentials and definitely not understanding what I do or where I’d best fit. I’m tired of the more-more-moreness of modern life and the fear of running out—of time, of money, of years to finally do the things I’d do if money weren’t a necessary pursuit.

Is this spring fever’s new look?

I’ve always been subject to restlessness as the season’s change. Maybe this is how that feeling is manifesting now. Maybe it’s an urge to shed something no longer serving me… but that something seems so… big… right now. I want to shed the entire structure. Like, the entire universe I’ve operated inside… I just don’t feel like I fit in there anymore. Or maybe I don’t want to.

I want acreage without neighbors and a view of something majestic...but I also want to be able to get to a grocery store in under seven minutes. The list of contradictory demands is laughable, even to me.

I suppose all I want is ease.

Is it ever easy?

We’re so conditioned to believe life is hard. We brace for it. We armor up. We battle it out on playgrounds, in board rooms, in bedrooms. We succeed. We fail. We dust off and go again.

Can’t it be easy? When does it get easy?

Where’s the contentment?

Why is it mistaken as complacency?

Why aren’t you still striving? More. More. More.

Tapping Out

The idea of tapping out, making no decisions, paying no bills, scheduling nothing, producing nothing, taking on nothing is so… naughty. It makes me feel like a teenager about to climb out a window and into the night undetected. That’s irresponsible. That’s immature. That’s wrong.

Gah! Do we ever get to rebel?

When do we get to act without permission or consideration of what’s expected? Wasn’t adulthood supposed to give us that freedom? Not if you want to be a form-filling, accepted member of society. Or a parent. Or an employee. Or all of the above.

You’re supposed to want all this. You’re supposed to do all this. You’re supposed to suffer all this, forever, until you die. Only then are you free. Only then can you have peace.

I remember days when dinner showed up on the table by mom’s hand. The lights turned on as if by magic. Clothes were clean and folded and ready to be worn. A day lasted a lifetime.

Now, weeks fly in a flurry of busyness. Months lose meaning. Years are cruel. We get so disconnected from our bodies, it may be an eternity since we’ve run or chased or jumped or laughed breathlessly.

We stop. We stiffen. We break.

I just want to tap out for a year. Have it all to myself. But also with the people I love. And the comforts I’ve grown used to. I want none of it. I want all of it.

I can’t tap out. Because I’m the one who keeps the game going.

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