Most evenings this time of year, Kyle doesn’t get past the back door. The boots come off right there — dusty, sticky with harvest — and land on the mat before he takes another step. Harvest arrived early this year, and the days are long and start before the sun. But those work boots coming off mean the workday is done.
I won’t pretend it’s some sacred ritual. Some nights the boots come off, and the workday walks right in anyway. Living on the property, there’s no commute to shake off the day. And working alongside my husband means it takes real intention — which we often fail at — not to carry the business straight into our evening and to guard a little time as husband and wife instead of business partners.
But most days, we try. Part of it is shedding the work clothes — taking off the “hard pants,” as my daughter calls them, and putting on the comfies. A soft t-shirt. My slippers. Then a cold glass of chardonnay, or a retreat to the pool before dinner gets started. Nothing fancy. Just the small signals that this part of the day belongs to us.
I’ve been thinking about how the workday never really ends on its own anymore — not for anyone. Even our friends who are retired seem to have plenty on their list of to-dos. The busyness follows us home in our pockets and sits down at dinner if we let it. Whether it’s closing the laptop, pulling out of the workplace parking lot, or setting your phone on the counter, at some point we need to call it a day and leave the workday or the work of the day for tomorrow.
For us, it starts with the boots at the back door.
