I HAVE a PHD.
Or rather, I should say I have a case of PHD. Sorry, sorry... a small change that makes a vital difference. One would make me some sort of academic genius, while the other simply means I’m feeling a little blue after returning home to England following a wonderful holiday.
Oh yes. Post Holiday Depression has been kicking my butt this week. I apologise in advance for the shameless whining I’m about to do.
My boyfriend and I just returned from a holiday of a lifetime in New York City, where we fell so heavily in love with the place, we even went so far as to visit a local realtor to check out houses.
This sleepy-mining-town gal fell head over heels for the city that never sleeps, where all your dreams can come true in a ‘New York minute.’
The trip was my gift to my boyfriend for his 30th birthday and had been about ten months in the planning. And boy did we do it up right!
We sipped cocktails on the roof garden of our hotel with the lights of Times Square below us, visited Lady Liberty, braved the heights of Empire State, hiked around Central Park, rowed boats on the lake, shed a tear at the new Ground Zero memorial, retraced the steps of millions of immigrants on Ellis Island, sipped coffee in Greenwich Village, tried to appear as cool as the natives in Soho and Chelsea, ate Milk Duds and popcorn at the local movie theatre, cheered from the front row of a David Letterman taping, took a late afternoon stroll over Brooklyn Bridge and cheated death in many a yellow cab.
It was perfect. And it flew by. And then, just like that, it was over.
I know full well I should be bathed in the afterglow of my wonderful break, basking in fantastic memories, all smiles and renewed for the year ahead. Please don’t misunderstand, I know exactly how lucky I am to have enjoyed such a dream ‘vacation’ (ahh the language...) but I just wasn’t prepared for how hard it would hit me when months of planning and excitement was over and it was time to get back to real life.
It started on the flight home when were delayed two hours on the runway at JFK, then rerouted to Dublin fifteen minutes out of Manchester due to ‘poor weather’ (surprise, surprise). We finally touched down on UK soil five hours later than scheduled and the very first thing I heard, after two weeks of adorable lilting American twangs, was a woman with a heavy Yorkshire accent, directing the flow of traffic in the terminal: “Those on’ya wi nowt to declare, ova thi’er.”
This week, we’ve both struggled to settle back into our normal routine that includes work, housework, hitting the gym and the ever so exciting ‘big shop’ at Asda.
Sugar deprivation is playing its part. My usual breakfast of granola cereal is most unsatisfying after enjoying pancakes and maple syrup every morning. My mid-afternoon protein bar doesn’t hold a candle to a big piece of chocolate Oreo cream pie eaten in 96 degree sunshine.
If you think about it, a holiday gives us all the opportunity to see what it would be like to be rich for a little while. Adam and I had saved like mad for months beforehand so that we would be able to do whatever we wanted while we were away. And we did. Expensive meals out, shopping, theatre tickets, the works. It was unbelievably freeing not to have to think ‘ooh, can we afford that?’ and ‘gosh, wonder how much of my overdraft I’ve got left...’
We had two blissful weeks of not having to work and having plenty of money. Then we came home. Where we’re back to working long hours and are completely skint.