It took me all of Sunday and a small chunk of Monday to get home – in fact, after a series of delays and episodes which must have been transportation based jokes that I just didn’t get, a sweeter-than-pie Joe picked me up at the airport at 2am Sunday night/Monday morning. We got my luggage and drove home, and we weren’t in bed until after 3am, and so the last few days have had a bit of a slowness to them, and I don’t mind a bit. I’ve been thinking about these few days for a while now.
August 8th. That was yesterday and it’s the day that I was finally home, and not running a Summit, and not wrapping it up with Tina, and not sleeping in a bed that’s not my own and not drinking coffee that isn’t quite right and not in a convention centre, and not in a restaurant… and don’t get me wrong. I love a lot of those things (even the convention centre grows on you if you put enough yarn in it) and I’ve had the most wonderful two weeks (especially if you like hard work, and I quite do) it’s just that there’s nothing quite like home, and for weeks now I’ve been fantasizing about these first few days home, and how wonderful they’re going to be.
Usually, this is a set up. Usually I walk in the door after having been away for a while, and it only takes a few minutes to for the rosy fog to clear. Usually when I come home from a trip I’m only happy to be home for a bit, then realize that the relaxing and beautiful home I’ve been looking forward to is somewhere under a total pile of crap, and I freak out. I can’t ignore the mess, and I get so mad that I didn’t come home to what I wanted to that I end up ruining my own homecoming. (This may be one of the reasons that Joe often calls my arrival home "intense". Personally, I’ve never understood why he doesn’t dodge it by cleaning EVERYTHING before I get here, but such are the deep and perpetual mysteries of our marriage.)
This time, in a move that has surprised even me – I don’t care. You wouldn’t believe how much I don’t care. I’ve been in the time-mire of Sock Summit for months. The house was trashed when I left, so it’s no surprise to me that it’s even more trashed now. The house is so totally trashed that I can’t even hardly tell where to start straightening it out, and in a shocking turn of events, I’m so happy to be home that I’m almost finding the mess charming. Yesterday I ignored it wholesale. Hell, I sat in the middle of it and knit, and this morning I sort of chuckled at an endearing hairball that the cat must have hacked up sometime in the last two weeks. (I did clean that up.) I hardly recognize the way I think being out of J-clothes is not an urgent issue, I doodled my name in the dust on the piano. I find it amusing that there’s a strange smell in the fridge, and hey? Did you see the way the recycling hasn’t been taken out? It’s sort of cute.
I simply love it here, and even the fact that it’s raining today and I’m out of clean clothes, eggs and bread doesn’t bother me. I’m untroubled the fact that I can’t find a clear spot to put so much as a coffee cup on my dining room table, because it’s MY dining room table and MY coffee cup and MY coffee and maybe tomorrow I’ll wipe something off, because today I’m really, really going to sit in this trashed house, and knit.
It’s my mess, and it will still be there tomorrow. Or the next day.
(PS. The baby blanket is way bigger.)