When we’ve spent too much time indulging in areas where we typically exercise restraint, we find ourselves more grumpy, more entitled, more cheated, and sad that the only thing we have to show for our debauchery is the roughly 10 pounds of newly acquired chub that our body clings to in case there’s a food shortage somewhere down the line.

My last vacation was a sh@t show in this regard, and brought a quick death to my month-long exercise/diet/get-in-shape weight-loss program.

I flew to Maui to hang out with my wife who had already been there for a week, attending a conference. Every morning, we drove to a local hole-in-the-wall malasadas joint (read, dessert-for-breakfast), then to a beach, then to lunch, then to a beach, then to dinner, with drinks (most evenings the famed Monkey Pod Mai Tai), followed by an evening beach walk, then to bed.

There was no calorie counting, no pressure to work out, or to experience any other of my typical, daily discomforts – such a rare feeling of freedom. No kids. No work.

And mister did we ever need the break.

It had been years since Elaine and I had taken a vacation without kids – saints preserve ’em. In the fall of 2017, we tried to spend a few days in Napa together, leaving the kids with an in-law and breathing a sigh of relief when the plane touched down in the early AM California sun.

Things didn’t go well.

We had taken a red-eye flight and were completely wiped when we went to bed on our first day. I was woken up a couple times around 11:00 PM, smelling smoke, convinced that someone was getting high just outside our door, which felt weird, but I was too tired to get up and deal with it. Around 11:30, I was woken up a third time by rescue workers yelling “Fire!!! Evacuate!!! Now!!!”

I had no clue about California’s tendency to set itself ablaze in the windy, dry, fall months, so I assumed the building was on fire, which didn’t scare me as much because we were on the first floor.

I openend the door, walked outside, and beheld the awesome splendor of being in the middle of a California wildfire, part of what came to be known as the “Northern California Firestorm.”

We drove for about 10 miles, then pulled over at a convenience store to get some water. As I approached the checkout counter, the clerk stared at me and said, “Dude, you smell like beef jerky.”

There were multiple deaths in that fire alone, some were in the complex where we were staying.

Driving out of that mess, wondering multiple times if we’d survive, left us both, for the remainder of our vacation, with enough PTSD that I was found crying in my glass of wine over breakfast the next morning.

It wasn’t anything close to a vacation.

This latest Hawaii gig was everything to us.

Spoiled Adults

For my part, I ate, drank, slept, and played whenever I wanted. It was a blast. After a week, Elaine and I drove to the airport in Maui where she got on a plane home and I headed to Oahu to spend another week working on my surfing “skills” with a buddy who’s 9000x better than me.

Surfing in Hawaii is challenging because the good waves are usually some distance from the shore. To prepare, I spent a month working out super hard, dieting, counting calories, and losing about 10 pounds.

When I got home, I was in better shape than when I’d left. But my old nemesis was lying in wait…

Food.

I tried, but there was no pole to lash me unto as the warm, motherly tones of her siren-call lured me into that abyss us post-vacation-spoiled-folk are all too familiar with.

The fridge. And her ne’er-do-well sibling…

The pantry.

And their evil cousin…

Leftover Halloween candy that the kids have forgotten about.

I had spent two weeks eating and drinking whatever, whenever, and wherever I pleased. My face was an open-24-hours-vacuum-hole for any marginally consumable product. I think there might have been a vegetable or two in there somewhere but I can’t remember.

I had become the poster child of all spoiled adults.

As I write, three weeks into my post-vacation life, having re-discovered that lost 10 pounds, like, already, I’m left feeling like a spoiled child – frustrated, constantly feeling like I need more of something that I can’t put my finder on, and super grumpy when people and/or the cosmos don’t behave as they should.

Why the How-to’s of Unspoiling Yourself are so Difficult

My soul wants what it wants. It always has, but not like it does after spending half a month rolling over every time it asks for something. Telling it “no” at this point is much more difficult than it usually is.

I’m in need of unspoiling, and realizing that it can’t happen without pain, multiple iterations of self-discipline, and maybe a few time-outs.

But don’t get me wrong, I have 0 regrets about how I spent this two weeks of my life, regardless of whatever damage it might have done to my soul. I just have to figure out how to unspoil myself, because, honestly, this sucks.

I’m faced with two options that are not unlike the different methods one might employ in removing a Band-Aid. I can go fast, but that’ll hurt more, or slowly, which ultimately ends up hurting just as much, but over a longer period of time.

Regardless of how I go at this, I’m going to have to reignite my workout routine, put some level of a kabash on the black hole resting over my face, and square off with the fact that none of this is going to kill me.

But a body at rest tends to stay at rest for a reason. Spoiled adults tend to stay spoiled. Transitioning from vacation-spoiled mode to responsible-adult mode feels like diving across a chasm. It’s dangerous, scary. When I think of getting back on the exercise bike, for example, my soul acts like I’m plotting something that more closely resembles self destruction.

And to some degree that’s true. The process of un-spoiling does involve a sort of death. It feels like death, like it’s the wrong thing to do. But I’ve done this enough to know that this is where I ultimately want to live.

If I go upstairs, right now, don the gear, hit the “workout” button on my watch so there’s some tangible evidence that I’m not a complete slacker, mount the stationary bike in the basement, turn on the last fight scene from Rocky IV, and, very simply, pedal for five minutes, I’ll still be grumpy.

But I’ll have enough vision to exercise for the remaining 25 minutes, which will give me enough vision to say FU to the Halloween candy, which is easier now because I ate it all.

Maybe, on my next vacation, I’ll rethink all of this and respect some of the boundaries that us spoiled adults tend to loathe. For now, it’s helpful to understand why I’m so cranky, feeling more “unfulfilled” than I usually do, with a clear vision of how to climb out, painful as this is going to be.

Photo Credit: Roberto Nickson at Unsplash