Finally, after two weeks, Tom is flying home today from his business trip.
Never before have I spent two weeks home alone. It was the best of times. It was the not-so-best of times.
I'd awaken, smiling and wondering, "Where shall I go today?" I'd take my time getting dressed and ready and then drive to the cute little shops I'd not visited since autumn leaves still hung in trees. I'd play European Lady and go shopping for only enough food for that one day and later I'd watch sweet, mushy movies, fast-forwarding (with my very own remote) through any dialogue which, I felt, slowed the movie down--all the while sitting in the most comfortable chair in the house, normally reserved for Tom.
I got up when I wanted, went to bed when I wanted, puttered, dreamed on the front porch in the sun and tried never to make dinner.
It was terrific. For about a week.
There's something that begins to creep in when you always get to do whatever you want. It's a little like selfishness, spoiledness and unappreciation all mixed together. You begin to take things for granted because, suddenly, there's nothing negative vying for your time, making easy times, sweeter. It's like Spring arrived but you didn't really notice or care because you didn't have a real Winter this year--just strings of warm, sunny days.
It's like too much of a good thing is no longer a good thing. And well, I already knew that, but it was good to be reminded.
It's good to remember that if we only had good times, they would, after awhile, plateau into a boring kind of goodness. If we always got our way, we'd soon get bored and start demanding bigger and better times to top what we'd grown bored with.
Or something like that.
All I'm really saying is that I'm glad Tom--and normalcy--are returning home today. And thank-goodness for them both.
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