I set my out-of-office auto-responder like I was boarding a plane to somewhere warm. Turned off my phone notifications with the solemnity of someone about to disconnect from civilization entirely. Found a Bill Bryson book on the shelf—something about walking through woods, which felt appropriate given I’d be walking from the kitchen to the living room for the next week.

The plan was simple: vacation mode. The reality was simpler: we’re not going anywhere, it’s a frozen wasteland outside, and yet somehow we’re doing this anyway.

The Tent Incident

Nothing announces “we’re on an adventure” quite like assembling a tent in your living room while the Olympics play in the background. My kid is fully committed to the bit—sprawled in there with pillows and a tablet like we’ve really escaped something.

The dog keeps trying to join, confused about why the good sleeping spot is suddenly behind mesh.

“Is this real camping?” she asks.

“Absolutely,” I say, watching Norwegian curlers sweep ice with the focus of people defusing a bomb.

It occurs to me that curling is the perfect staycation sport. Nobody’s rushing. Everyone’s focused. The urgency is manufactured. The stakes are somehow both very high and completely meaningless.

The tent stays up for three days. The Olympics stay on longer.

The Productive Procrastination Paradox

Here’s what nobody tells you about staycations: they become the perfect excuse to finally do all the things you’ve been avoiding.

I’m supposed to be relaxing, so naturally I’m doing taxes. Patching holes in the wall. Researching appliances for the renovation that starts next month—do we really need the fridge with the door-in-door situation? I spend forty minutes reading reviews.

This should feel like work. Instead it feels like the most leisure thing I’ve done in months. Because I’m not doing it on a Sunday night in a panic. I’m doing it on a Tuesday afternoon while Bill Bryson makes me laugh about the Appalachian Trail and I consider whether to measure the kitchen one more time.

The errands that have been nagging at me for weeks suddenly feel… manageable? Pleasant, even?

Turns out the problem was never the task. It was doing it while also fielding Slack messages and mentally calculating if I could fit in grocery pickup before the next meeting.

Nothing Is Urgent (A Reminder We Need More Than Once A Year)

At some point—maybe while slicing peppers with actual care, the kind where you notice the colors are actually really beautiful—I remember this thing I’m supposed to know but constantly forget:

Nothing is actually urgent. Or almost nothing.

The emails will wait. The wall holes have been there for six months; they can wait another day. The work that felt critical last week is still there, still fine, still not on fire.

I’m cooking, really cooking, not meal-prepping while mentally running through tomorrow’s calendar. The peppers get sliced thin. The lime gets juiced properly.

My husband wanders through and we actually talk without someone asking “is this a good time?” first.

This is the thing about vacation mode that has nothing to do with location: it’s permission to remember that you actually like your life when it’s not a pressure cooker.

That cooking can be enjoyable.

That your kids are funny when you’re not rushing them.

That the dog is happier when you’re not checking your phone every three minutes.

The Verdict

Would a beach somewhere be nice? Sure. Would a cabin with an actual campfire beat the living room tent? Probably.

But there’s something perfect about the staycation reality check—the gap between what vacation is supposed to look like and what it actually is when you commit to the bit anyway.

We’re not going anywhere. We’re watching curling like it matters. The tent is still up. The taxes are done. The peppers were delicious. My kid thinks we’re wilderness experts. The dog is confused but supportive.

Turns out vacation isn’t about where you go. It’s about deciding that for a week, nothing is urgent, your out-of-office is up, and if anyone needs you, they can wait until you’re done watching Scandinavians very carefully sweep ice.

Real camping can wait until it’s above freezing.