As you'll no doubt have surmised if you read my entry about what happened when I picked up my mail, I'm home. I left my sister's house in Mesa well before dawn on Tuesday and got back to my house in northwestern Pennsylvania well after dark. I can't say my trip home was anything approaching an ordeal: the only problems were that 1) the airport was PACKED and getting through security took about as long and involved as much standing around and responding to the commands of officials in silly uniforms as a college football game, because the Fiesta Bowl had been the day before and seemingly every last person who went to the damn game had a flight out of Phoenix the same time as mine; and 2) my flight was delayed about 30 minutes because we couldn't leave without our flight attendants, who got stuck in traffic on the freeway. But once they showed up, everything was fine: I made my connection on time; my suitcase rolled onto the conveyor belt early and intact; the weather here in PA was OK (rain rather than snow); I didn't have to call a cab because there was already one waiting, blah blah blah.
Back at my house, I was greeted by Dinah, my cat, who was yowling and needy and distressed with me for leaving her, albeit healthy and well-fed thanks to my extremely reliable neighbors. My plants were all alive and aside from the cats toys scattered all over the living room floor, the place was pretty tidy (I always straighten up before I leave, because I hate coming home to a messy house), and I was really glad to be home, blah blah blah.
I AM glad to be home, really and truly. But I never enjoy the first day or two after I get home from a long journey, because there's just so freakin' much to do, and most of it isn't that fun (i.e., spending three hours sorting through a gigantic stack of mail). I generally find the outbound part of a journey much more pleasant and pleasing than the return. Outbound, my suitcase is filled with clean clothes and gifts I'm excited to give someone; I feel virtuous and entitled to fun because I've arranged for business to go on without me for a week or two; most of all, I'm looking forward to spending time with people I haven't seen in a good long while. But on the trip home, I've got a suitcase full of dirty laundry and souvenirs I'm not sure I should have bought; I'm a bit apprehensive about how long it will take me to catch up on the work I've been ignoring; I am well aware that it might be a very long time before I again see the people I've just said good-bye to.
But oh well. A far worse option than dealing with all that would be never going anywhere in the first place.
At this point I've pretty much put my life back in order. I've restocked my refrigerator and cupboards; I've done four loads of laundry; I've gone in to campus and turned in my syllabi to be copied, because classes start Monday. (That's right, Monday, January 9th. Most other universities start January 17th, after Martin Luther King Day. Not my institution, unfortunately, because I could really use another week to get ready for what will be a very busy semester.) And now I think I'm ready to stay home for a while--I have no trips planned until May. Because although I would hate it if I never traveled again, a few months of sleeping every night in my own extremely comfortable bed (the thing I've liked best about being home has been waking up each morning in MY BED, not a bed vacated by one of my nieces so I wouldn't have to sleep on the couch) seems pretty damn appealing.
