Last night I made the mistake of checking email in bed. Big mistake. Big. Huge.*
You see, we have rules. They've been in place for years now and there are serious repercussions. Actually, there are no repercussions, but just knowing you've broken one is bad enough. Kind of like when you did something wrong and instead of grounding you your parents just said they were "disappointed in you". Scary.
The rules started innocently enough. At some point in the beginning there were cutesy rules like always kissing goodbye before leaving the apartment. During the 2004 Presidential election when Mike and I were as far apart on the political scale as two people could possibly get (for example, both Emma Goldman and Ronald Reagan had a a place on the bookcase), a rule was formed to ban all political talk after 10pm so I could go to sleep with normal blood pressure. Once work became more important new rules took shape. Must change into comfy clothes within hour of being home. (This one is just good advice, work clothes feel like work, there's a level of stress that stays on them even when you are home. Pants with drawstring do not come with stress.) Technology advanced and there was the no blackberry in the bedroom rule.
And here's where we come to present day. I have a hard time sticking to this rule, and last night when I was about to turn out the light I picked up that evil little device and checked an email. I was pretty instantly plunged into a panic about the boss who wrote the email and the mistake that he was questioning me about which I wasn't able to fix without access to the document which may have caused it. Since, you know, it was at work. And I was in my bed. And then I couldn't go to sleep. Mike just gave me the look, the parent look, the it's-your-own-fault-sometimes-these-silly-rules-we-joke-about-actually-have-purpose look. And a new rule was born: there will be no work email while on vacation. I'm a little spooked, but I'm going to try.
*Did anyone else just read these three sentences and think of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman as she holds up her bags of purchases in front of the nasty shop owner? Is it ok to admit that I did?