Coming Home

I was only gone for three days.  It feels like an eternity. I'm having serious re-entry problems.

There was a garbage can to drag out to the street this morning.  There was a newspaper to retrieve at the end of the driveway. I had an appointment in the morning and a luncheon date at noon; I wanted to do both of them but I resented their presence on the calendar anyway.

We're on the last gallon of milk and the bread is looking a little green around the edges. Nothing in the house can create an edible dinner. The grocery store is in my future.

I'm blue because there was no elevator to take me down to the bakery in the building for a fresh blueberry muffin, a muffin that is Goldilocks-like in its perfection - not too big nor too small but exactly the right number of bites to fill me up but not out. I made oatmeal as I dreamed of Little Griddle doing all the work, leaving only the eating to me.

I like vacation. The real world is rearing its all too normal head and I'm annoyed.

It's foolish to feel this way. I like all the projects which require my attention. My body is grateful for the hour spent at Pilates this morning and my soul is filled with good company and laughter after lunch with CTG's mom and Sgt. Lois. I have nothing to complain about and yet I am yearning for the release of being away... even when the here and now is quite fine.

Yet, I know it's not just the being away.  Mayors Against Illegal Guns wants me to join them in Washington, DC next week for the end of the No More Names bus tour. I'll be doted upon and transported and I won't have to make any decisions at all. The travel will be fun and I could probably squeeze in a visit with Intrepid Cat and her parents. I'd be away.

I'll just have to tell my story, in the most gut wrenching detail, over and over and over again. I ought to do it. I just can't make myself say "Yes."

I want to be on vacation and not have to think about any of this at all.