How quickly we adapt.
I’m back from my work trip out West, 6,000 miles in three days and only a little worse for wear.
I don’t understand how people travel constantly for work. It feels as though I’ve been hit by a bus.
And though I managed to get through the workday and am still (barely) upright, I know that once I sit down, I’ll be out for the count.
That after working like mad and navigating:
- the security lines (exactly what is that machine looking at while you stand there as if in a shoot-’em-up Western?)
- the middle-aged bickering couple (he wants to take more trips, but apparently he’ll be doing so alone)
- the grayish-brown mystery meal that the overly perky flight attendant billed as ravioli (thank goodness for the ice-cream sundae)
- my seatmate on the return flight who never acknowledged my presence, not even when he whipped me across the face while putting on his jacket or dumped his trash in my lap when he thought he was plopping it on the arm rest
- or the idiot from the car service who not only didn’t have the sense to gas up before collecting my colleague and me, but didn’t have an EZPass for the tolls (believe it or not, this was an issue, even at midnight).
It’s OK; I didn’t need a bouquet of flowers.
Welcome to home, sweet home, where I navigate familiar obstacles.
Still, it might have been nice if someone had noticed the yellowing container gardens in the yard, and gave them a drink.
Or ran the dishwasher.
Maybe emptied the garbage since it can’t walk itself out, after all.
It wasn’t all bad news: Someone managed to wash a load of towels — and leave them for me to fold and put away. That’s only because the chore was on “the list,” though.
And even this morning, Catherine was still on lunch-making duty (and she got ME out of bed).
Plus, in fairness, I sent the two of them to a phantom doctor’s appointment in Darien Tuesday afternoon (oops).
Guess things remain the same whether I am home or not.