Image via Pixabay (not my shoes or my bra, but they’re cute!)
Home is where your bra comes off and your attitude comes out. No more niceties, just burping, pooping, crotch-scratching normality.
Or something like that.
I love my mom, and I love getting away for days at a time to recharge a bit. But the end of this trip home drained me in a way I didn’t expect.
As we motored down the highway towards home, alternating between classic rock music and history podcasts, I felt more myself than I have in days. I’ve got plans for the rest of this weekend and the week ahead. Some of my existential anxiety still exists, but I feel like I can weather through it.
And yes, John Brownstone and the boys are my home, but this introvert needs her space and her stuff, too.
Home is where we fuck and where we fuss. And, weirdly enough, it’s where I dream and plan and set goals.