The problem with days off is I become so conscious of the value and scarcity of this precious time that nothing seems optimal enough. And then, even if I invest myself in the most meaningful work I can think of, a voice in my head will tell me that I shouldn’t be working at all but should be enjoying myself (whatever that means). The workaholic parries with, “But I enjoy myself the most when I’m invested in my passions.” To which the leisure lover responds, “But … family. Isn’t it about time?” The end result: I get so invested in the debate that, before I know it, it’s 10:00pm, precious little has been done, and the next work days is only hours away. “No,” I cry. How did this happen? All I wanted was to seize the day, and in the very pursuit, the day slipped through my fingers. Then, with a heavy heart, I find myself envying the two-toed sloth. Hanging in carefree bliss, the sloth has no concept of time. The sloth has nothing to prove. The sloth just is.