It was three months ago, I sat idly yet anxiously by in the international terminal at Boston’s Logan International Airport as time dripped slowly. I thumbed across my iPhone, combing through Facebook’s newsfeed.
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Is it Me Or…
Everywhere I look, it seems as though travelers have happy stories of their travels. I often find myself imagining clear and sunny skies, perfect photographs of famous landmarks, a hundred smiling selfies suggesting an absurd level of honky-dory, the restaurants they chose (not forced) to visit, and the overall happy-ever-after ending. That’s it! Wait, what? No drama? And I’m not referring to the “how I almost missed my flight” drama because I almost miss my flight every time I travel—it’s actually sort of fun.
I sat glued to my desk in the office on a muggy Friday afternoon both outside and inside. The building’s Air Conditioner broke and the sweltering triple-digit heat smothered us. I felt as though I was trudging across the Sahara Desert and there was no end to amount of work I had. I needed an oasis. It was 3:00 PM and I had no plans for the weekend despite the moment now staring me in the face.
Tap…tap…tap…ta…was the methodical sound of my fingers smacking each letter on the keyboard. I was supposed to be writing a simple email to one of my customers, a menial task that usually took me seconds. That was it. I couldn’t do it anymore. [Insert the F word here] it, I thought to myself. I logged out, grabbed my work laptop and stormed out of the office without so much as bidding the other poor souls enslaved to routine—also known as my co-workers—goodbye.