A few weekends ago back in Philly, I had just gotten in from a super-fun night out with Kitty, et al. and she asked if I was spending the night at her place. My response was, "No, I'm going home. I'm gonna get up and drive home for lunch tomorrow, but have to leave right after so that I get home in time for yoga." WHAT!? Let's deconstruct...
"No, I'm going home" = Kitty, I won't be staying on your couch tonight, but that of Kel, another of my amazing friends who takes me in, rubs my metaphorical belly, and feeds me treats like the lost little puppy I am.
"I'm going home for lunch tomorrow" = I'm driving to Allentown, my parents' house, the one I inhabited for 23 years, where I will toss my coat on the living room floor and devour the delicious vegan food my mother spent 2 hours preparing for my hour-long visit.
"...so that I get home in time for yoga" = so that I allow myself ample time to navigate the 190 mile stretch of road that separates Allentown from Ithaca while alternating between zoning out to and rewinding self-help books on CD --all so that I miss not a single moment of the cat/cow warm-up at the local Y. Namaste.
I used the word "home" to refer to a friend's, my parents', and my college apartment. Oddly, the one place I didn't refer to as "home" is my Philly house that I own! (Okay, Wells Fargo and I went halfsies on it, but I'm making a point. And by "halfsies" I mean 80:20, WF:HE) Moving on...
Atop the French doors in my parents' family room resides a burgundy, scripted plaque that reads, "Home is where the Heart is." I'll admit, it rolls nicely off the tongue, but so does bullsh*t and, personally, I prefer the latter. Isn't your heart with you no matter your location? Does that make everywhere your home? Snails aside, I don't buy it. And what if you're having one of those days where your "heart's just not in it"--does that mean you're homeless? Plus, if home is truly where the heart is, shouldn't homeowner's insurance cover a broken heart? All-State never sent me those checks... There are just too many loopholes, so I started thinking about how I would fill in the blank.
Home is where the *family* is? Nope, doesn't apply to us single girls. Home is where your *mortgage* is? Except mine's not. Home is where your *bills* are sent? Obsolete with the emergence of on-line banking. Home is where you get your *slumber* on? Getting closer, but it only applies if you're not slutty and I don't want to discriminate. The only phrase I could come up with that made sense to me is this: Home is where the unlit walk to the bathroom at 3 a.m. is a non-injurious one. Presently, by this definition, I am able to proudly call five residences "home."
In fact, if I ever live in a place with French doors, I will have the following, less succinct, yet no less felicitous verbiage scripted on a plaque to place atop:
Shiver, hallway, left, shhhh, don't wake the babies; 8 tip-toe steps, right, close door, then hit light, wonder why they sleep with the door open; leap--curling iron cord, pause--scrape gritty particles from bare foot, no need to shut door, ahhhhh relief
The plaque, of course, will be purple. My heart, I hope, will be happy. My un-stubbed toes and I will be home.
Cheers,
Heather
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