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Back to the World of Dreams

I don’t have much time left. Ten, maybe eleven hours at the most. Sometime tomorrow morning, I have to go back to work.

It’s not the worst thing in the world, I suppose. I like my job — as vocations go, I wouldn’t kick it out of bed for nibbling Triscuits. But the office and I have been ‘on a break’ for the past week and a half, and frankly, I’ve grown accustomed to my slothful ways. You can’t just turn off ten hours of sleep and nine hours of lounging around each day, you know. There has to be a post-vacation re-adjustment period, doesn’t there? Here are a few suggestions I’ll be making when I hit the office tomorrow:

Two o’clock siesta: If I manage — painfully, mind you — to roll in by ten or eleven in the morning, I’ll be positively pooped by two. While I’m still on ‘cantina time‘, why not let me catch a few mid-afternoon winks, to ensure an alert and productive employee for the twenty minutes I’ll manage to work before I duck out at five?

What? Like I’m going to miss happy hour on my first day back? Slavedriver, please.

A place in the sun: I’ve had the hot Mexican sun shining on my shoulders for the better part — and I do mean better part — of the past week. Surely, it’s not too much to ask to have my desk moved outside for a few days, to allow me to acclimate to the harsh New England weather.

Yes, I know the sun’s not nearly as strong up here, but I’ll find some way to manage. I’m a real trooper that way. Of course, if you’re feeling sorry for me, boss, I could always take a few extra days in the Carolinas — to ease the transition, of course. I’m just trying to help.

Margarita meetings: Three words — ‘tequila withdrawal syndrome’.

“Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone involved if you threw some Cuervo and lime juice in a glass over ice, and brought it to my cabana— I mean, cubicle?”

I’m not positive my health plan covers such a condition, but if it does, the office would be out a lot of money, right? Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone involved if you threw some Cuervo and lime juice in a glass over ice, and brought it to my cabana— I mean, cubicle?

And easy on the salt, there, Sparky. I have sensitive lips.

A menu muy bueno: Normally, I have very simple tastes in lunch food. I’ve always been easy to please that way. But after a few days of authentic tamales, ceviche, and huevos rancheros, I’m simply not sure I can go back to those lunch truck burritos.

How about springing for something from that upscale Mexican place down the street? I’m not picky; empanadas, flautas, chile rellenos — it’s all good. I wouldn’t want to be a bother, really. And I’m sure I’ll be able to go back to the old routine soon. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of months. End of the year, max.

Somehow, I have a feeling it’s not going to work out. They’ll probably even get upset when I show up tomorrow in my swimming trunks, with a mariachi band and a bottle of Herradura. I bet the help desk people won’t rub suntan lotion on my back, either. Tomorrow’s going to be one loco Monday, amigos. Ay, chihuahua.