Comforts of Home

As much as I love going away on vacation, I'm always amazed at how good it feels to come home at the end. I never appreciate this house more than when I've been forced away from it for a few days. I may have only lived here for two years, but I've known it for nearly a decade, and there's something safe and embracing and comforting about the shape of the rooms and the sound of the echoes and the patterns of color and furniture and clutter that make me feel like I've stepped back into my own life again.

My cats are here, torn between showering me with love and affection, snubbing me for daring to leave them, and generally jumping in the air and acting like depraved maniacs at finally having an audience again. My bookshelves are here, and my crafts, and my computer. More than anything else, though, my heavenly perfect bed is here. Somewhere within the past year or two, I have apparently developed a Princess-And-The-Pea-like intolerance for any unfamiliar mattress, and Thursday's marathon tooth-pulling session followed by three nights away from home have left my spine feeling like stale cooked pasta - simultaneously mushy and weak, and yet too stiff to actually bend where it's supposed to.

But my bed is here. It knows the shape of my body, and it's full of pillows that actually support my head. It has my blankets, that feel and smell right. It has my cats, who admittedly probably contribute less to my actual sleep and more to my ending up squinched into a tiny ball by morning, but still make things generally feel more home-ish. It also has my sweetheart, who is more of an incentive than anything else....

The game was good. Socializing was good. Right now, though, home is better than everything.