The blizzard that hit Chicago got me stuck at my sister’s place from Tuesday until today (Thursday). When I left work on Tuesday I knew that I wasn’t going to be able to get parking AND get back out for work- so, I made the call to go to her place. I’m glad I did (except for the tree limb that caused me to no longer have a passenger side view mirror)- because the roads near me didn’t get plowed till late afternoon/early evening.
Those who know me know that I don’t settle into “home” well. I have a tendency to call it “the apartment”, “the house”, or I’ll refer to the place where I live by street name “Riverneck”, “Christy Hill”, etc. Even when I had a studio apartment- it was just me. My name only on the lease… I didn’t call it home. It might be that awkward part of me that isn’t sure I’m wanted or it could be that I don’t want to commit to anything- but calling something as “home” gives me that feeling of saying “I love you” for the first time unsure if it will be reciprocated.
Something happened during the crazy snow- I realized that I missed home. Sure, one could argue that it’s simply my stuff that I really missed- phone charger, socks, clothing, laptop, stuffed monkey, etc- but I can live without stuff (well, maybe not without socks). Driving here tonight after work, as I was making my way down the newly plowed roads (made me feel like I was driving through the parted Red Sea) I started worrying that I might not be able to park. I circled for about 30 minutes because I was dead set on getting home. I finally parked in a somewhat questionable spot- but it seems worth the risk to me to be home.
As I opened the front door, it felt as if my home said “I love you too”.