Since Labor Day, I've been off work.

Not fired. Didn't quit. No rehab. I asked, after almost four years at the same company, for a sabbatical. Time off without pay. I needed to recharge my batteries, so to speak. After not too much wrangling, my request was approved.

So I've been, in a way, unemployed for the last four weeks. Except I have a place to go back to when the time is up. Best of both worlds, you could say. I thought for a long time (as this idea has been simmering in my head for more than a year) the only way to get significant time off work was to quit. I work with two of the most important and profitable clients my company services. Finding a time when I'm not needed is hard. I've had years when I couldn't even take a vacation day for six months or more because there was no break in the work. In 2001, I couldn't get out of the office until late August. No vacation time (and very little sick time) until right before Labor Day.

But this year has been a bit different. Our main client spent their money for the first three quarters by mid-July. When I saw the big space in late summer/early fall open, I knew it was my chance to flee.

I only made a slight outline of plans for the time off. I was rather busy until my last day in the office, so it was hard to think too much about what to do when I'd be gone. Other than lots of rest (whenever I felt like resting), I planned to hike all four sides of the Sandia Mountains. And that was it. That's all I had. The time off without pay would cost a significant amount of money--just because I wouldn't be making it. To put another chunk of cash out so I could relax on a beach instead of in my backyard would be a bit prohibitive, cash-wise.

I accomplished my objectives. I hiked all sides of the Sandias (one hike a week, four weeks), and I rested. I realized a few days in that making plans or trying to make a schedule would be counter-intuitive to my purposes. I didn't want to structure my mind, I wanted to let it fly where it might.

I read a couple of books (Women by Charles Bukowski and High Fidelity by Nick Hornby--kind of a gentler, 90s version of Women). I practiced and played with the band. I had some mimosa afternoons (champagne and OJ is a nice way to watch the sun fall down through the sky). I watched a ton of movies (I'll guess around 50, just because there was at least one a day and many days with two). I slept when I wanted to and stayed up late when I couldn't. I grew a vacation beard, which will disappear when the vacation is over.

There were a few parties, a few nights out on the town, socialization that comes with being a single guy.

But most of all, I got the office out of my head. That box of a building which holds a chunk of my life for the better part of each year. Not so much that I can't go back, but enough to realize what happens when I'm there.

One of the qualifications of leaving for a month was to be, sorta, on call. And I made it almost three weeks before I got a request for my presence. So, with one week to go, I had to re-enter work for a day. The amount of work I actually had to do took maybe a couple of hours. I spent the rest of the time talking with many of my co-workers and going to meetings. This, actually, is part of my work as well. It's just not as easy to quantify as the time spent in front of the computer screen. These conversations reminded me why I needed to be gone.

The slightly pained and stressed out looks on their faces as I told them, "I haven't really done much of anything," was enough to realize what being in the box does. Their tales of routine underlined this as well. But the realization that during the course of a month nothing really changes made me scream out of the parking lot at the end of the day. I was glad I still had another week before those pained and stressed out looks started to appear on my face again.

I knew I was stepping off a cloud coming back into the office for a day. I didn't realize I was stepping down so far and into a tar pit at that. Knowing the tar pit is waiting for me doesn't really fill me with dread, though. It's a necessary evil. It has to be done--if I don't step back into the familiar tar pit, I'll have to go out and pick another one to drown in. I have a feeling the dinosaurs who walked into the tar pits of old knew what they were doing as well.

I'm just going to try, for a little while at least, to keep one hand holding onto my fluffy cloud.

Matt Worley will, once again, be a slave to the grind on Tuesday.