I am a homebody, not a recluse by any means. I would just rather be home than anywhere else. Home is my sanctuary. All day at work, I can’t wait to get back home, and when I do, I am not disappointed.
Home is where my dog lives, and although he goes places sometimes, he never goes without me. His name is Chacho, and he greets me with tail wagging, and then makes me play chase with him and give him a treat before he will go outside to take of care of business.
Home is where all the things I love to do are located in one convenient place. I have piles of books to read, a computer to write down my thoughts, delicious food to cook, canvases to paint, photos to scrapbook, movies to watch, gardens of flowers to enjoy, and music to hear. I could do some of these things other places, but it just wouldn’t be the same. My husband gets slightly annoyed with me on vacations because I usually start talking about going home on the second day. It’s not that I don’t like hotels and new locations. But I’d rather be home, surrounded by things I love to do. Inevitably, on vacation, I want to read something I don’t have, use something I didn’t bring, or listen to music I left at home. And don’t even get me started on the bed. I need my own pillow and bed to sleep well. But mainly it’s that feeling I get at home, like it’s where I belong, the only place where I am perfectly comfortable and content.
Most importantly, home is where I get to spend time with my husband, Randy, without anyone else around. We work opposite hours, so we both spend a lot of time at home alone (well, Chacho is there), which makes the time we get together that much more precious. Being with Randy is like being home. I can be myself completely, and I have everything I need. As long we’re at home, that is.
Maybe it’s because there is so much noise and conflict out there. My home is quiet, peaceful. Oh, sometimes we play the music pretty loud, but what I mean is at my house no one ever yells, no one says mean things, no one (hardly) ever criticizes or complains. I’ve gotten so used to this that I don’t even like to hear a couple on a TV sitcom arguing. Why is that considered normal? I hope most couples don’t really talk to each other that way.
Besides going to work, I go out a few times a week. I meet friends at a restaurant, go to a book club meeting, or attend a lecture. My husband and I go out to dinner and a movie sometimes. We go to an occasional play or a concert. I really am not agoraphobic or anything. It’s just that no matter how much fun we have, the best part is always coming home.
I have friends and family that travel all the time and love it, always on some adventure. It sounds exciting, like they’re really living, experiencing life. But I have come to accept that that just isn’t me. Once I made a bucket list and put the usual things on it–see the Greek Ruins, the Parthenon, the Louvre, Venice, Stonehenge, Michelangelo’s paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and I do want to see all these things, but when I ask myself, What would I do if I found out I had six months to live and money was no object? I wouldn’t want to travel, at least not farther than my friends and family’s homes. I would invite all my friends and family over to my house and spend time with them. I would have long conversations with them all. I would quit my job and spend hours talking, reading, studying, writing, and thinking. I’m sure it sounds pretty pathetic for a bucket list, but on the other hand, I am pretty lucky that I already have everything I really want waiting for me at home.–Christina Knowles