Whoever coined the idiom “Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life” was obviously not hired by an organization to perform certain duties in exchange for legal tender.
I love my job, I believe in the work I do, I’m endlessly thankful to have this opportunity so relatively soon after graduating, and I want to advance within my company. But it’s work. And just because I love it doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult sometimes.
Things have been exhausting lately, so when possible I retreat to my Happy Place. It is cozy, warm, silent, and devoid of people who aren’t me. But if you need a Happy Place, too, you are welcome to share so long as there is no speaking whatsoever. Only the playful “caw-caw” of seagulls and the soft lapping of waves against the shore.
Polly’s Happy Place
Much like my favorite Barney song from when I was three, my Happy Place starts with a hole in the ground. Maybe I find regressive comfort in retreating to my childhood pastime of digging in sand, maybe I find small enclosed places cozy. It matters not. When friends ask me how my day is and I reply with “I just want to hide in a hole,” I am not employing any literary devices. So my Happy Place begins with a hole in the sand and a Polly in the hole and the seashells lie all around, all around. The seashells lie all around.
Next, to increase the coziness of my beachhole, it is lined and cushioned with a pile of snuggies. Just take away the people, the couch, and the things that aren’t snuggies and you’ve got the idea:
Between the tropical sun and snuggie-insulated burrow, things might get a little toasty. Though I prefer being slightly too warm, the Happy Place most definitely needs a source of refreshment. Thus, the self-replenishing margarita machine, as pictured below.
And finally, as it is never a good idea to consume only margaritas while slightly too warm on an empty stomach, the gently swaying palm trees in Polly’s Happy Place are made entirely of cheese. Specifically gruyere, asiago, bleu cheddar, gouda, and brie. And in this imaginary Happy Place where there are no physical limitations, the brie never becomes too runny in the equatorial heat.
There is also an adjacent hole filled with eighteenth century Gothic literature so that when I grow tired of napping, sipping, chewing, etc., I may divert my mind with timeless tales of good versus evil and the lasting power of love. And another with wonderfully awful scifi B-movies and old musicals. And then another with Tom Servo and Crow T. Robot for those rare moments when I desire snarky dialogue.