To me, there’s nothing better then stepping inside my front door after a long and arduous flight…or flights, only to glance around the room and think, who the hell cleaned up around here? So on my list of ‘musts’ is to leave my home tidied, the sheets new and crisp, the dishes done and the trash taken out. Because returning home needs to embrace as wonderful a sentiment as the adventures I will replay with memories.
I love my luxurious sofa with it’s seasonal slipcovers, even if summer is nearly up before I switch them. I have a Louis XVl clock that I will either donate to a museum or get buried with, out of the sheer eternal joy it will give me. And I admit, I take pleasure in leafing through my muted rainbow of leather jackets I have finally pledged to actually wear from time to time. If I’ve been out of the country without my best friend in tow, what could be better than the look on my baby’s face when he sees me coming through the door. That is except when he follows the pet sitter out as she leaves thinking he’s going for another walk!
Sure, there is the part of me that wanes over the uncomplicated life I once led out of college yet the thought of being a no-mad is better left for others. I love coming home, if only long enough to regroup and to complain about the smog, traffic and brittle population. Simply put, how could I possibly plot my next escape if there weren’t some sense of dissatisfaction burrowed deep inside?