Sand in the camping chair filling in as temporary coach in my living room. Two left over iced miller high lifes and the bottom of a bottle of scuppernog clanging in my refrigerator and sneering as I reach for the workaday milk and juice. Dread building shelves in my stomach and stacking phone calls and missed deadlines and a sudden fear of returning to The Office. Utter confoundment over the suits hanging in my closet and how to put them on after days of bare feet and dirty cut-offs. A fierce resolve to buy nothing, nothing I tell you!, until I have saved enough money to vacation for at least a year. An echo of someone whispering languidly in my ear, why do we work? and my answer drowned out by the pound of the ocean.