I didn’t feel like doing anything that day. I even took Moxie for quick, business-only walks. I sat in my oversize sweatshirt and leggings and mindlessly watched reruns of Chopped. It was a Sunday afternoon, and I told myself it was a “good day to be lazy.”
But, in reality — I knew I was lying to myself. I was close to looking like a Cymbalta commercial, because I was very homesick. And, we had only been in Chicagoland for a couple of weeks.
I forcibly freshened myself up, shook it off and ran errands/did laundry/made dinner and felt better. But, not after a good, minute-long cry in the arms of my supportive and loving fiance. I cried for “just a minute”, like my mom always reminded me, for anything beyond that is excessive and winds up throwing you right back to where you started.
While I was snapping myself back into shape, I thought about the word “homesick” — and the word “home” even more.
Where is my home? I mean, I live here. But, my family is in NY. So, do I have two homes, I asked myself.
When you’re growing up, you go on vacation, away to school, move out on your own for the first time…but you know you can always go home (to your old room and the comfort of your parents). But, by the time you are engaged to be married and maybe even just so happen to move to another state, you’re building a life, a family…a home, together. Continue reading