As much as I look forward to coming home from holidays, I must admit there is a small part of me that wonders just how I will fit back in. Sometimes I wonder if I am a little like a rehabilitated wild animal, like a bird, after being nursed from injury, and now it is time for the keepers to hold me in their gloved hands, let me go with a shake, and wish me well.
In all the wildlife programs I’ve seen, the bird – or whatever it is – usually amscrays without a look back. I usually look back.
Perhaps this is ordinary post-holiday wistfulness; perhaps most of us return from holidays with a car full of clothes that need washing, bellies that are a little fatter, and a mental space that is arguably as frazzled as the day you left.
So when we pulled up in the car the other day, I kept close watch on my feelings as we entered the house. It had been over five weeks since I left. That is a fair time away. I could survey the scene with a fair amount of objectivity. I walked around and was pretty brutal: I realised I loathe our tiles just as much as my husband does, because they are nearly all cracked. I still love our kitchen counter-tops. I remain ambivalent about our green carpet.
Harshest of all, I went to my clothes drawers and tipped them out, and went through them as viciously as a stylist on a makeover show. I filled up three bags, without so much as trying on the outfits to allow them one last defence. Most of them wouldn’t have fit, anyway, and that would have just made me more depressed.
And with less than 48 hours before my husband goes back to work, the house and I remain at impasse. Which is a shame, for we need a good relationship.
At least I do, with it, to stay sane.
