I need a vacation from myself.

I need time off.

Not from work.

Not from the humidity and searing heat.

Not even necessarily somewhere fabulous with room service and a view.

I need a vacation from myself and my overactive mind.

I would like a week off from noticing that the kitchen counter has crumbs on it. From fluffing pillows no one is looking at and straightening things that apparently offend me by being three inches out of place.

I need a vacation from my perfectly clean house.

Let it get dusty. Let a glass sit in the sink overnight. Let the bed remain unmade until noon.

I know. Anarchy.

I need a vacation from friends who call to ask how I am and then, without waiting for the answer, spend 47 minutes telling me how they are.

I need a vacation from politics. The outrage. The breaking news. The breaking news about the breaking news. The people yelling on television as though volume might somehow improve the state of the republic.

I need a vacation from the economy. Interest rates. Insurance. Taxes. The price of olive oil. The price of eggs. The price of seasonal melon. The moment at the grocery store when three bags of absolutely nothing remarkable cost $187.

I need a vacation from grocery shopping altogether.

And cooking.

And the question that has haunted women since the discovery of fire, What are we having for dinner?l

I don’t know.

Eat cereal.

I need a vacation from worrying about my dog. Every limp, cough, strange look, upset stomach and mysterious bump immediately launches me into veterinary DEFCON 2. I dispense pills, prepare special meals, wash beds, schedule appointments and stare at her while she sleeps to make sure she is breathing.

I need a vacation from my husband.

He’s marvelous. Truly.

I would simply like him to be marvelous somewhere else for approximately 24 hours.

I need a vacation from bad hair days, which increasingly seem less like isolated incidents and more like a lifestyle.

I need a vacation from my garden. I love it, but apparently plants require water, pruning, feeding, deadheading and constant emotional support. I thought gardening was supposed to be relaxing. I seem to have acquired 200 leafy dependents.

Mostly, I need a vacation from the little voice in my head that keeps a running list of everything that needs to be cleaned, cooked, fixed, watered, answered, scheduled, paid, worried about and taken care of.

Maybe that is the vacation I really want.

Not Paris.

Not a beach.

Not a spa.

Just a few days when nothing needs me.

Including me.

Although room service wouldn’t hurt.