How to Spot a Professor on Holiday

Doing nothing. Feeling guilty. Calling it mindfulness.

There’s a certain look. Crocs (obviously). A wide-brimmed hat that screams “don’t talk to me, I’m recharging,” paired with a canvas tote full of SPF 50, two half-dead pens, and a printout of an article titled “Reimagining Reflection: From Rubric to Revelation.” The giveaway? A Kindle loaded with unread pedagogy PDFs, camouflaged between a spy novel and The Myth of Sisyphus—because it’s vacation, but I still need to feel tortured.

That’s your professor on holiday.

We try. We really do. But even on a beach towel, we’re scanning QR-code menus muttering about user interface logic. Judging service flow at the hotel breakfast buffet. Watching a lifeguard manage a lost child and thinking, “Now that’s a conflict resolution role play.” Every queue becomes a case study. Every tantrum? A leadership lab. Every bad mojito? A lesson in quality control.

We’re not wired for off-switches. And honestly? That’s part of the problem.

So this summer, I’m trying something radical: not learning. No syllabus updates. No color-coded folders. I ghosted Google Drive and buried my Notion inbox updates in a shallow, unmarked grave. I even said no to a syllabus redesign request—and only felt guilty for 27 hours.

Instead, I’m experimenting with radical laziness. Long lunches under loud umbrellas, eyes stinging with SPF 50, brain idling like a forgotten scooter in the sun. Yesterday I stared at a tree for 40 minutes and called it “design thinking in nature.” I’ve downgraded from “reflective practitioner” to “guy chewing slowly.” I eat without purpose. No agenda. No link to course outcomes. No insights. No deliverables. Just one tomato at a time—usually dropped on myself. And honestly? It’s glorious. I’m not thriving. I’m not optimizing. I’m just a guy in bright yellow Crocs, quietly disintegrating into summer.

And loving every second of it.