The idea of going to rehab sometimes appeals to me, not so much for the enforced sobriety part, but for the opportunity to just chill out and take care of yourself for however long. Like Thoreau’s Walden, except less — nature-y….

For a short escape from the daily grind, read Wakefield, a short story by E.L. Doctorow published in the New Yorker last year. The main character accidentally falls asleep in his garage one night — then starts secretly living there, homeless person-style, without informing his wife, kids, or workplace — until they assume him dead.

I felt the stubble on my chin. Who was this fellow? I had not even thought about what I had left behind in my law office—the cases, the clients, the partnership. I became almost giddy. There would be no more getting on the train. Below me in the garage was my beloved silver BMW 325 convertible. Of what use was it to me? I felt uncharacteristically defiant, as if I were about to roar and pound my chest. I did not need the friends and acquaintances accumulated over the years. I no longer required a change of shirt or a smooth, shaven face. I would not live with credit cards, cell phones.

My new year’s resolution‘s going well, BTW. So far, 7 stickers!

Photo by Pay No Mind

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