We’re about to go on vacation. These are the moments in my life when I become acutely aware of how weird I am. Most people are like, “Yay! A vacation! Can’t wait!” because they’re normal and well-adjusted and don’t mind their carefully crafted routine being interrupted for the sake of seeing the world outside of their door. And yeah, all that stuff is neat, I guess. But I’m also very reliant on my routine for maintaining my (illusion of) mental health. Leaving for a trip on a whim is something I used to be able to do, but since my son was born, travel has a very different meaning.
As fun as the trip will be, there’s so much planning needed to make it successful. In the age of the internet, I’m able to research my destination, find reviews, and locales that interest me, plotting everything out in my handy-dandy notebook. Of course, I’m flexible too, and if something kickass comes along, I’ll probably ditch the scheduled stuff for the adventure.
But, when it’s all over, it will be things from home that make me happy. Things like this:
The mugs only fit if we put the littles on the bigs, and stack them “just so” in the cabinet. And yeah, the outside world is neat, but this is the comfort that keeps me coming home. When I come back from my trip, I’ll know that I’m home, seeing these site, knowing my first cup of coffee made exactly the way I want it is only moments away.