You might remember that Atlanta won the right to host the 1996 Olympic Games. As with any case where the city at the hub of the area you live in decides, without consulting the residents, to hold a huge event, there were people who thought this was great, and others who thought it was a really stupid idea. I was a member of the latter group.
Believing that the Olympics would cause a greater logistical nightmare than Atlanta normally is, and since our county was uninvited from participating (the county board never bothered to ask the residents whether that they wanted them to make the resolution, probably because they wouldn’t like the answer), not to mention the fact that Mary and I couldn’t care less about the Olympics, we decided to take the two weeks off and ignore the fact they were going on. When I told someone this, they said “So, you’re going on staycation, then?” It was the first time I had heard the term, and I liked it.
We had a great time. We went to a lot of movies, ate out a lot, and I’d watch the Braves, who were on a two-week road trip to the West Coast, at night. All without traveling more than five miles from home.
Many of the vacations we’ve taken have been spent at home. Not that we’re opposed to traveling, although it’s gotten infinitely harder with my disabled status in the last ten years. We’ve taken some great trips over the years, don’t get me wrong, and there have been some occasions when I was able to mix business and pleasure and take Mary with me. But we’re basically homebodies, and when I was traveling all the time, the last thing I wanted to do on vacation was get on a plane and go somewhere. And, from Mary’s perspective, she’d rather spend the money on yarn.
Today’s prompt was to write about the word “staycation.”