I let my hands loosen around the wheel, weighing the possibilities

I can feel it in my blood, in the restlessness as my eyes drift to the window. It’s been a year in this office, the walls of work tightening around me, and I know it’s time to chip it away.

It’s vacation time.

Before I was a working girl, I did not understand the sheer desperation to get away. Listen, I like routine. But even the most predictable girls can buckle under the regularity of day-to-day living, the systematic nine-to-five grind.

We pick a scenic location, a friend and I, and plan to get away from it all.

Laptops side-by-side on the dining room table, we create an itinerary of where to go, what to do, what to eat. It’s just three days, Monday to Wednesday, but opportunity looms big and enchanting. We’ll go to an island where horses run wild — for real! — a kayak tour, a boat ride. We’ll take two Betty Crockers, the budgeters that we are. Just us, marking our new stage and independence. Real working girls go on vacation.

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