Practicing the Art of Vacay

I'm still trying.

I was born into one of those extended immigrant families in the Northeast that you see in the movies.

My family had a split-level suburban home but we spent a lot of time at three-family homes in the neighboring city — where the men sat on the porch playing pinochle and drinking ale, speaking the language of the old country, while the women putzed around the kitchen, cooking and laughing, and the kids ran around the tiny backyards.

This wasn’t us.

We were raised to work hard. It was the holiest of holy graces.

Our hardscrabble relatives with multi-syllabic last names taught us that the world could take everything from you — your home, your country, your money, your smarts, your looks, your freedom, ANYTHING — but what it couldn’t take was your spirit and your 400% commitment to hard work.

400%. Because 100% was for losers. Or Protestants.

That kind of productivity obsession is hard to turn off or even meter.

But I have 5 days off right now and dammit, I’m going to relax into all of it. I’…