It was how I referred to the vacation that was odd. Alluding to some project I intended to start, I had said to my friend at the dog park: "I'll work on it as soon as I get this vacation over with." She had laughed. "When you get it...over with?" I laughed too, because I understood on some instinctual level how ridiculous it sounded and I figured I should act like I was joking so as not to seem weird. Like I had spoken these words, you know, just to be funny. But the truth was I really didn't find much humor in it. It's honestly how I see most vacations: as something to get "over with." This will probably annoy some of you, especially if you're sitting there wishing you could get away right now but just can't. I'm sorry. Really. But I can't help it: I just don't find vacations that relaxing. And given the choice, I would opt not to take them. The preparations. The unknowns. The expenses. The near certainty that something will go wrong. It all leads to a higher-than-usual level of anxiety for me.

I blame my genes, of course. My grandfather was a champion non-traveler. He did not enjoy flying. He would do it if he absolutely had to. But if driving was possible, he'd do that instead. Grudgingly. His ideal vacation was a short hike to the backyard for some grilling. People would make jokes about his reluctance to travel. Like I'm doing now. But I'm going to tell you something: I understand it. I feel the same way. And I appreciate where he was coming from. And I am not fucking joking.

Right now, I'm at a point in my life where I'm fine going anywhere I can drive to in a day. However, I'm pretty sure that, as I get older, this distance will get shorter and shorter. Until one day I'm packing a cooler and a pair of underwear (just in case) to go out and sit on my porch.

I'm not sure what this reality is going to do to my marriage. I think I may have to take an ad out on Craigslist: "In Search of Traveling Companion for my Wife." I will be careful to note that this in no way should be taken as a euphemism. Unless the responder is a woman. A brunette, preferably. About 5'2" and of latin descent. Then I might make a camera a precondition.

I had my annual physical recently (one thing about people with high levels of anxiety is they always go for their annual physical) and I spoke to my doctor about my terrific sense of foreboding. She said one positive way I could look at it is this: anxiety is a survival mechanism. On the grand evolutionary scale, anxiety is a good thing. It helps us anticipate danger. Basically, it keeps us alive.

She's got a point. Last year I saw a person who prescribed me some pills to help me ward off the worry. They were tiny and white and they looked harmless. And at first they even felt that way: benign. They seemed to do nothing. Then, I gradually began to notice that I was becoming numb. I cared less. About everything. I spent about nine months that way. And I started smoking again. And doing other things that were generally bad for my well-being. It was kind of fun, I have to admit. To not really care. To be able to ignore danger. But it definitely wasn't in my nature.

So you see? It may seem weird to you, my attitude toward vacations. You may think I'm no fun. But it's just because I'm standing a few rungs higher on the evolutionary ladder. Granted I've only got one foot planted on the step. And I'm using my knee for support and my other leg out behind me for balance. And I've got a pair of clippers in one hand and a chainsaw in the other, and I'm stretched out trying to reach that dead limb. And, oh yeah, I climbed up here in a thunderstorm, in the middle of swirling wind and lightning flashes. But don't worry about me. I'm a survivor. And I'll be celebrating that fact with the cockroaches when earth becomes a giant wasteland.

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