Peter Costa: What I didn't do on my vacation: Relax

Now I know why psychiatrists take August off. It's to avoid having to treat people like me who forget to leave their work lives at home when they go on vacation.

I began my time off with a road trip to Down East Maine. My plan was to eat my way up the coast via seafood restaurants until I got into deep pine tree country.

About one fourth of the way up, I had to stop to refuel. The so-called "fuel door" (a.k.a. gas cap) on my vehicle is located on the driver's side. Most every other vehicle at the gas station had fuel doors on the passenger side. This gas cap topology resulted in drivers zooming around the lot counterclockwise like pace cars at Indy while I circled slowly in the opposite direction like a horse at a British derby.

After many minutes of circling, I found an open gas pump. The fun was just beginning. I now had to go through an interrogation via the pump screen:

"Do you want to pay inside or outside?"

"Do you want to pay with a debit card, a credit card or oil company card?"

I was tempted to respond: "I'll pay using only the bond laddering portion of my 401(k) that is invested in Pacific Rim securities."

But instead, I simply pressed "credit card." Now the pump accepts every card imaginable - cards from banks, credit unions, bait shops - but not my credit card. Not listed. It's toxic, radioactive, filled with viruses, I imagine. I decided to use another credit card that was about $52 from its maximum limit. The pump accepted it.

I was then instructed to remove nozzle, press fuel key, press type of gasoline grade desired, insert nozzle in filler tube and begin fuelling. They also informed me that they had a special on 30-packs of a soft drink that is popular only on the other side of the International Dateline. I decline their generous sale offer.

After stabbing at the filled pipe like D'Artagnan of Three Musketeers fame, I finally was able to get the nozzle into the pipe without catching the anti0fume rubber lid on the open door. I began to pump and the numbers changed rapidly. I was reminded of lemons on a Las Vegas slot machine.

I stopped fueling the very millisecond the pump handle clicked. No topping off for me, not in this heat. I'm being clever and allowing room for the fuel to expand. On went the cap, ratcheted once and I was off.

I drove along the highway contemplating the sweet scent of the sea with a mental picture of gulls wheeling overhead. Soon I see myself sitting down to an appetizer of steamed clams followed by lobster.

I arrived at my first lobster house and noticed that the sign outside read: "Twin Lobster Night." The parking lot was so full that cars were funneled into an overflow area parking area. Not a good sign.

But I refused to be deterred. I was on vacation and deserved twin lobsters as much as the other guys from Boston. I joined the long line waiting to enter the restaurant and made small talk with perfect strangers.

"Oh, yes, incredible heat. I was worried that my little car's radiator wouldn't be able to handle it, but it did." And, the very insightful: "Wow, this is a long line, isn't it?"

I was seated in the rear of the restaurant where natural daylight had not been seen since the carpenters put up the restaurant walls in 1968. After a time, in super-slow-motion like a 60-yard pass reception in an NFL game highlight film, the waitperson sauntered to my table. She insisted on telling me the seven specials of the day.

I informed her that I simply wanted the twin lobsters. The lobsters arrived along with a delightfully cold glass of beer. I sipped the beer in darkness and began to eat the lobster knowing that, now, I was truly on vacation.

I waited for the bill. It seemed to take an exceptionally long time. Being the aggressive, always-on-deadline neurotic I am, I grew tired of waiting and decided to stand up near my table. I took out my wallet and made a theatrical show of removing bills to be ready to pay the check. No one noticed or seemed to care. Everyone was busy cracking lobsters and laughing.

I looked around and was convinced that "CSI: Miami" couldn't track down my waitperson. She was, as H would say, "in the wind." Desperate, and with my left leg starting to go numb, I stumbled to the front of the restaurant and asked the host person if she can find my waitress.

"Look, Miss," I was tempted to say but didn't: "I work for the Jet Propulsion Lab and an asteroid is hurtling to earth on a collision course and unless I get to the lab and reprogram the lasers in space to diver t the asteroid, it will be extinct dinosaurs déjà vu all over again."

I merely said instead: "I'm sorry but I'm in a hurry."

The manager came forward scowling.