I’ve been traveling for most of the past ten days: first a long weekend up to Portland for a friend’s wedding, then a trip to NYC with my tween daughter. Now I’m back, and I gotta say, re-entry is kind of a bleep.
Due to a heady cocktail of good fortune, great planning, and loyalty program/bank/credit card generosity, I spent eight out of the past ten nights in fabulous luxury hotels. These were places where people went out of their way to please me and ply me with amenities. Places where I could pick up the phone and make things happen. Places where someone else made the bed and cleaned the sink. Walking up the stairs to my house last night, I was super excited to be home. Then I opened the door and had a “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore!” moment.
Don’t get me wrong: to quote the Talking Heads, home is where I wanna be. And to be fair, Josh had picked up most of the clutter, plus he did the dishes and kind of made the bed. It was just a feeling of crashing back into the reality of my life: work and carpools and meal planning and cleaning the sink. And mopping the floor. And watering the plants, packing lunches, going to the dentist and doing the dishes. And the laundry. And the cooking.