Really, I only get 5 days off when I come home for just a week. I roll in after dark on (s)crew change day, and leave in the AM the day before crew change in order to get to the Weed Palace (The drug- and whore-friendly hotel where my employer puts us up to 'rest' the night before crew change, and by rest I mean listen to people scream over rap beats, police knocking on doors and hookers performing their trade all night).
So perhaps unsurprisingly I leave for work not with the excited anticipation of yesteryear, but a sense of duty and a pocketful of melatonin pills and earplugs.
This trip home, 5 whole days, was incredibly healing. Seriously, I did very little but enjoy time with my family and make a trip to my doctor, who said I was doing well but in his professional opinion, he diagnosed me as being fat. Like I didn't know. Anyhow, after the usual indignities, I was able to get a guffaw out of him when after pulling up my drawers I said "Geez, you know Father Porter used to at least give me a candy bar after." I have a fun doctor.
Beyond the fact of my doctor getting to 3rd base without buying me dinner first, I have little to complain about my 5 days here. I spent part of every day in the pool with my wife, whether daytime or no, and while I did get a mild sunburn it was nothing to complain about, and I actually look healthy, rather than my usual mix of dead corpse white and brick red, and Inappropriately Hot Foreign Wife baked her brown buns to a lovely golden hue. She took a few days off from work and so we slept late, ate too much and killed off half a case of champagne and a half bottle of good scotch.
You know if I worked at Burger King I could sleep in my own bed more. The choices we make...
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