Homebody

I am a homebody.

At least, that’s what I tell my family, my friends, my husband and my kids when they want to go somewhere. If I do go somewhere, the questioning goes as follows:
– Do I have to wear a bra?
– Do I have to wear makeup?
– How long will it be until I can put my comfy clothes (ie. pajamas) back on?

What a killjoy!

This morning Donnie wanted to go to the Pumpkin Patch as a family. Immediately I tried to push back the time so I’d have more time with my book on the couch. It didn’t work. Donnie explained the logistics of why we had to be there by noon. At least I think that’s what he was doing while I was staring out the window and nodding. I complied. Alright, we’ll leave in a hour.

And you guys, we had the best time.

I haven’t always been a homebody. I used to go out on the regular with Donnie. I used to sneak out of my parents house. Out is where I always wanted to be. When we were dating, Donnie and I agreed that we’d never become hermits when we got married and had kids and grew older. We’d always go out and do fun things. I think it was even in our wedding vows.

What happened?!

Somewhere between playing air guitar to my friends’ band, bumpin’ n grindin’ to my favorite Nelly songs and getting married, having 3 kids and moving the country, I lost it. I lost the desire to party. I don’t want to go out. I’ve been out. I don’t want to be out.

Is this a funk? Am I in burnout mode? Am I a homebody now?

The older I get, the more I want to do exactly what I want to do. And I’m happy at home. I love my house, I love my reading couch, I love my family and watching The Flash with Logan. Everything I love is at home, why would I want to leave?

I’ll go out when I’m good and ready.

For now, I think I’ll work on being ok where I am. At home.

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