It's been a very nice week in my parents' house. We've eaten a lot of things I'd never eat at home (for sheer calorie count, among other reasons), and I've spent more time working than I expected to do. From inside tasks (like cooking and helping with some organization) to outside tasks (like the 2.5 hours of pre-spring raking I did, yesterday, for which I am still paying in achy muscles), I've put in a decent amount of work.
But it's been good. The inside work made time for me to hang out and get to re-know the house. The outside work forced me to enjoy that 70-degree day and not simply hang out inside on the couch. I've read my way through most of a novel, watched a movie, and slept--fairly well--in my old bed. But I've also gone out to tour the Library, Youth Center, "Good Stuff" and grocery store. And even got to see where the car hit the Catholic Church on Sunday morning. (It was the biggest news in town all week!)
Tomorrow morning I'll pack up and head northwest. The goal is to get home before rush-hour so that I can be there for dinner with Christopher. It's a weird feeling which never really becomes less weird. That feeling of leaving home to go home. Even the terminology is inherently odd.
For now, though, I'm going to move my laundry to the dryer. I'll worry about moving farther than that tomorrow.