My benignant management staff has granted me a total of nine consecutive days off, in late July. This raised the interest of one of my co-workers, who has been asking regularly about my plans, which makes detailed answering difficult, since I have none. She has suggested Vegas, San Diego, Scottsdale, and Miami. Her computer is rife with pictures of her and her legion of friends in a variety of warm, scenic locales, sipping flowery drinks and posing suggestively for the camera. I like being in her office.

All of which makes me feel like I'm in one hell of a rut. I mean, on weekends, I consider driving up to the Iron Range, when I should be finding cheap airfare, and hitting the driving range. I've considered sitting around, but nine days of that would wear on even the steeliest of nerves, and I've never been big on drinking before noon on weekdays. I don't really DO that much of anything, because for most of my adult life I've been content with learning how NOT to do things, tamping down the stress levels.

The thing about traveling is that it's great when you have money. The last time I went to Seattle, I spent too much on the rental car, and worried about finances the entire time, which is no way to go. The hostel had free breakfasts, which cut costs, but I'm not a college student anymore, and Raisin Bran, no matter how free, is still pretty weak for a vacation meal. If I do decide to go somewhere new, I'm going to do it right this time, and stay somewhere other than the Red Roof Inn Airport, although their continental breakfast has Raisin Bran! Two scoops of depression.

Lately, taking walks around my neighborhood and sofa surfing simply ain't cutting it. I'm good company most of the time, but I'm finding the need for some extracurricular distractions. Then there's the gnawing need to meet new people, to get new perspectives, to feel the exhilaration of joining new personalities other than the same faces that meet me at work and my apartment complex. I've got a nice place, and genuinely like Saint Paul, but I'm getting what the Germans call Der Wanderlust. Valderi valderfuckingra, my knapsack on my back.

I'll spend a fat portion of the company dime today searching for deals, and maybe forego the usual trip to Lake Superior in leiu of a body of water that I can actually swim in without thinking my heart's going to stop.