I was visiting my family in Virginia a few weeks ago, and really thought it would be a forgettable, averagely enjoyable trip. The late night bus I took from New York was uncomfortable. The bathroom I shared with my two siblings when the three of us lived at home was messy. Our family dog Bear had more trouble getting up and down our front porch steps than I remembered. All of these were normal, expected home-visit realities. Everything was as it had been on every other visit.
I was sinking into the usual couch-and-tv-induced lazy haze on my last night home, watching a movie with my mom and sister. For some reason, the couch at your home, regardless if it’s a nice couch or not, is the quickest quicksand when it comes to sucking you into an unexpected bout of hours-long lounging. Maybe it’s the familiar pheromones gripping your body and reminding it that you’re safe here, safer than anywhere else. It’s a sensation that triggers a refreshing release of the armor I feel like I wear everyday in New York.
