As is my custom at 6 am on Monday morning, I just
finishing writing out my action plan for the week. I say “action plan” because
it sounds more masculine and aggressive and less pathetic than a “to do list”,
which is more accurately what it is. These are the things that I must
accomplish for the week before I can start my weekend. As a business owner, and
my own boss, if I manage to check off the last item by Wednesday afternoon,
well, my weekend starts early. However, this week everything must be checked
off by Thursday evening or, the barnyard manure will hit the fan. See, this is
the week before my vacation, which means I must work twice as hard as I do any
other week, so as to earn the right to officially goof off for a week. It’s all
very much a matter of cosmic justice.
Usually there are 10-15 items on my list, er..
action plan, all of them business related. But this week there are 27 items,
only around half of which have anything to do with making money. The rest are all
about the intricate details involved in vacation logistics, when one goes on
vacation with 15 of your closest relatives. Yes, once every two years we
Dunnevants engage in a week long exercise in communal living on the Outer Banks,
where everything is shared, from each according to his/her abilities, to each
according to their needs. We even establish a communal bank of sorts, which
involves a large white envelope stuffed with cash. Karl Marx would be proud,
except for all of the religious music.
To complicate things (another hallmark trait of the
Dunnevant clan), Pam and I have decided to pack up a couple of days early so we
can drive up to Princeton New Jersey to hear Patrick perform in a concert. Then
we will rise early the following morning and stuff Patrick’s vacation suitcase
into the back of the car and make the 9 hour trek from Jersey to Hatteras,
through the byways and highways of the Garden State, then down the coast, a
trip never before attempted on a Saturday in July since the Great Boll Weevil
infestation back in the 1920’s.
Nevertheless, I will hack my way through this prodigious
list one item at a time until I check off the last one, which reads, “follow up
TransAmerica money-laundering requirement”, which is much less sinister than it
sounds, but regardless, must be done. Then Pam and I will leave town for nine
days away from life, and for the first time in twelve years, not have to leave
instructions for someone concerning Molly’s care. Strange how we mark the
passage of time.
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