On the Impediments to Homecomings

So, the last five days have been divided between seeing doctors, dentists, dermatologists and masseuses AND generally making my home habitable once again.

In between appointments to various professionals whose vocations are to serve either wellness or vanity (the distinction is often a cosmetic one), I’ve: shopped, dusted, hoovered, wiped, mopped, polished, washed, scrubbed, laundered, repaired, reorganized, streamlined and unpacked.  

Today, for the first time in five whole days (possibly thirty-six counting the month I was out), my house is in its customary impeccable state—and maybe even better given the recent installation of a much awaited work desk.

(This particular piece of furniture was a long overdue item on the list of housing renovations that began late in January of this year.  The only items still remaining are the replacement of the air conditioning unit and the roofing of the terrace. At the current rate of progress—due largely to a dearth of available carpenters, on the one hand, and an abundance of red tape, on the other—I may actually master all six series of the Ashtanga asana practice before they’re done. The less yogically-inclined may express the same sentiment with phrases like “when pigs fly” or “when hell freezes over.”)

In any case, with the house back in order, I feel sufficiently grounded to embark on all the other things that now have to be urgently handled since they were suspended for a month (an unsurprising number of which have to do with email). Hopefully, if I work with a very unyoga-like, desperate, manic speed for the next few days, enough things will be settled by the end of the week for me to actually enjoy the feeling of coming back home.

What I’m clear about is that right now, I don’t even quite feel that I’m home yet.

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