There was a time when I could get dressed, grab my purse, jump in the car, run six errands, stop for lunch, and still have enough energy to do something useful when I got home.
These days, I can spend twenty minutes deciding whether I really need to go to the grocery store.
And usually I decide I don’t.
I’ll have something delivered.
Or I’ll do without.
Or I’ll decide that whatever it is can wait until tomorrow, which has a remarkable habit of turning into next Thursday.
What the hell happened?
I haven’t forgotten how to leave the house. I know where the front door is. I even know where my shoes are, although I have considerably fewer reasons to put them on.
But something has changed, and I’ve been giving it some thought.
For most of my adult life, going somewhere wasn’t something I thought about. I just went.
There were jobs, appointments, children, groceries, meetings, obligations, and a hundred other things demanding my attention. I was in motion because life required me to be in motion.
I didn’t wake up every morning and decide whether I felt like participating in the world.
The world was already banging on my door.
And then one day, it wasn’t.
Nobody needed me at the office. Nobody expected dinner at six. Nobody was waiting for me to show up somewhere with my hair combed and my respectable clothes on.
For the first time in my adult life, my days belonged to me.
And I discovered something rather wonderful.
I like being home.
I like my coffee. I like my books. I like sitting in my favorite chair with absolutely no intention of accomplishing a damn thing.
I like writing when something occurs to me and painting when the spirit moves me.
I like the fact that I can spend an entire afternoon doing something that would have been considered a ridiculous waste of time when I was younger.
And I particularly like the fact that nobody gets to tell me I should be doing something else.
For years, home was the place I returned to after spending my energy everywhere else.
Now home is where I get to spend that energy on myself.
That’s a beautiful thing.
But I’ve started wondering about something.
When does enjoying the freedom to stay home become an excuse for not going out and living?
Because I’ve caught myself doing something interesting.
There are things I genuinely want to do. Places I’d enjoy visiting. Experiences I know would make me happy.
And yet, when I think about getting dressed, arranging transportation, dealing with people, and actually going somewhere, suddenly my favorite chair looks awfully appealing.
It’s not that I don’t want the experience.
I just don’t particularly want the bother of getting there.
And those are two entirely different things.
A few days ago, I was thinking about how often I have things delivered. Groceries, household supplies, little things I need for painting.
It’s astonishing what can arrive at my front door without my ever having to put on a bra.
Now there’s a modern convenience I can enthusiastically endorse.
But I found myself thinking about something else.