Sigh! I love to travel. It's healthy to get away now and then. But it never fails: I can be gone for a week, a month, a mere weekend, but upon my return I fall into a major funk.
When I get home, I feel pathetic. Other people have busy lives and uncluttered houses. They have jobs, high-achieving children, well-tended yards, up-to-date photo albums and appliances that work properly. Their lives appear manageable.
This time, I was only gone for four days, but I felt like a sullen teen-ager during the duration. "How are the boys?" Fine. "Will you go back to work?" Shrug. "Are you dating anyone?" No. "How does it feel to be child-free for a few weeks?" Weird.
After eight hours driving back, two hours through Chicago rush-hour traffic, I was home. Home to unread newspapers and mail, a living room filled with old computer parts and new components, a blinking answering machine. My new washer still does not work properly and my yard is still an eyesore.
Inspired, I prepared a "to-do" list. I'll show it to my fairy godmother when she visits. In the meantime, I should get out more . . . or less?