For most of my working life, I have not taken vacations. In fact, out of 16 years of working full-time, I’ve been on only three actual vacations. Which is not to say I haven’t taken time off. Usually what I do is sit around the house for a week, or else I’ll burn up vacation days by giving myself almost half a dozen three-day weekends.

Today marks the final day of the current iteration of this phenomenon, adding up to six full days away from the office (counting Saturday and Sunday, which I would have had off anyway). I’m beginning to wonder if taking time off is such a good idea.

There are so many people who are unemployed right now that something feels very wrong about my sitting around the house all day. (I don’t have the money to actually go anywhere.) All this leisure time has induced a state of mild, persistent anxiety – that’s just the effect that idleness has on me, after having someplace I’m supposed to be most days of the year. Sure, lot’s of people use their vacations as a way to get as far from their lives as possible for a while, but I don’t have the cash for that. Instead, I sit around the house getting fatter and more asymmetrical by the minute, which is exactly what I’d be doing if I were unemployed.

I’ve been unemployed before. In one case I spent six months looking for work after a long-term job of mine was outsourced. I hated every stinking minute of that half-year. This past week has given me flashbacks of that time – what in god’s name was I thinking? When I return to work tomorrow, I’ll be more jittery and useless than ever.

For those currently out of work, you have my sympathies. It really, really stinks.