Day One

Halfway through the day, my cell phone battery dies from overuse.

By noon, I have four outraged voice mails from my best friend: "If you're going to do this, leave your cell on! And in your pocket!" I've had a cell for only four years. We've been friends for 12. How did our friendship survive?

I call my mother. "Thank God you're somewhere!" she jokes. In fact, the Internet is the most not-somewhere you can be. But I see what she means.

I had pictured having some mongoose-like vigor that would send me into a fury of creativity, but it's not happening. I made the horrible, horrible mistake of clearing out the day for this. And now I sit here while everyone else in the theater office is reading e-mail. The desire to cheat is ravenous.

Still Day One

There's a Bermuda Triangle in my life of to-do items that get lost until a significant space of rediscovered time is created, at which point these items reappear like lost pilots who walk toward their loved ones through a mist, wearing 1940s clothes. The pilots are now reappearing.

I need to contact my whole cast to change tomorrow's rehearsal time. Six actors times two minutes per call equals 12 minutes. Upside: One actor never checks e-mail, another's is down; phone calls assure rehearsal change works. Might hang on to this system after my 30 days are up.

I wish I had someone looking at my in-box for me, to make sure nothing disastrous is happening. Although, really, what could be disastrous in an office setting if you're not, say, a terrorist watch organization? My inflated sense of self-importance is becoming clearer. My Zen teacher would be so proud. Screw her.

Day Three 

On vacation. At Disney World, with my mother and 4-year-old son. For a person who has not been on vacation without a laptop or within walking distance of an Internet café in eight years, yesterday was a cruel beginning. I was in old-school mode: rushing to get in as many rides as possible, dashing back to the Fastpass area when what we needed was a break and a snack. So, no surprise to anyone (but me) that by 3 P.M. we were in full 4-year-old meltdown mode.

But today I am here. Finally. Disconnected from everything but my son's energy level and my bladder. And if you can believe it, it is a sweet, slow Disney day.

Day Six

Back from vacation. Virtually no voice mails at work. Panic. Did I write the wrong number on that final e-mail? Or are they not calling because (a) it's too annoying, (b) it's too time-consuming, (c) they're lazy, or (d) they've forgotten me? Oy. There goes my career.