As I sit here woefully contemplating the view out of my window (a view of the Pacific Ocean via Santa Monica. If I was a good blogger, I would know how to take a picture of my view and share it with you, but I really only know how to type and press "post"), I'm thinking "Why do I have to work in the summer?"
I mean, I accept that I'm nearly dead (almost 37), but what is it inside of me that really wants to be sitting by my pool reading Us Weekly? (The NEW version that is 100% anti-Paris Hilton. Yeah, they're taking the high road...) Why haven't I gotten over the 4th-grader's love of summer vacation? Why can't I buckle down, and actually do my job rather than wistfully remembering playing in the sprinkler and lounging in the sun?
Sigh!
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2 comments:
amen. this is why i am taking my summer vacation this year...because i can't get over how wonderful it was to be 12 and at the pool everyday.
I agree, there is kind of a sick American mentality about work. Why do we continue to have the highest productivity rates in the world? Because we are suckers for the man. We have been conditioned and guilted into thinking we can never work hard enough or long enough (that’s what she said!). The following data should open our eyes.
According to the World Tourism Organization, here is the average number of vacation days per country:
Italy 42 days
France 37 days
Germany 35 days
Brazil 34 days
U.K. 28 days
Canada 26 days
Korea 25 days
Japan 25 days
U.S. 13 days
We’re freaking last on this list of industrialized countries. And while I’ll say our country doesn’t compare to those lazy French and Italians, the Germans, who are known for their ultra-productivity seem to manage just fine while taking over a month of vaction per year. What’s up with that? Corporate America has conditioned us to work harder and harder (see previous comment in parens) so they can squeeze every last dime out of us while making fat-cat profits. What can we do about this injustice. I say we start pushing at least for incremental changes. 4 day workweeks anyone? As the old country and western song goes, “work your fingers to the bone, whaddya’ git? Bony fingers.”
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