I have no life.
Really, I don't. I confessed to Alex the other night that I'm partly afraid of finishing the unpacking process because that would mean there's nothing left on the "to-do" list of things in my apartment.
Living with my parents made me so excited to move out because I felt like I would really stretch my wings, get out and socialize more. The only thing I've learned in the last several weeks is that I'm a major homebody . . . and I'm growing to accept this.
I love cooking . . . I like cleaning . . . I dig organizing. If I had the space, you bet your boots I'd be trying to learn how to garden -- the idea of growing my own herbs and vegetables thrills me beyond belief.
Part of me is willing to believe that having long-distance boyfriend also contributes to my desire to stay home, but I don't really think that's the case. Alex and I mutually trust and respect one another, so I know I don't have anything to worry about when I think about going out with girlfriends or whatever. I just like staying home. I like being cozy on my couch and watching some terrifying movie. (I really like the idea of watching some terrifying movie with Alex -- you know, so he can keep me safe and all.) But at the end of the day, I just want to be at home.
Now, this is not to say that I don't enjoy a good girls' night out from time to time. I would like to scratch "pub crawl" off of my lifelong to-do list. But I think it's time to come out of the impeccably-organized closet on this one:
I am a homebody and I am proud of that.
I think this blog is morphing into my homebody life reflections, but I think that was where I wanted it to be all along.
To be continued . . .