As I think about it, I’ve not spent a lot of time at home. On weekdays, I spent most of my adult life in an office. For the last year and half, I’ve spent weekdays wandering the city and taking photographs, shopping, going to the gym. For years, weekends have seen a never-ending contest between N., who wants to leave the house early and come back late, and me, who would actually like to spend more time at home, perhaps for the very reason that I am not at home much during the week. I regularly lose the argument.
Now, I am at home all day, day after day. Yes, I go for short (30 minute) walks in late morning and I go shopping once a week (more on that later). But I am at home enough to see the cracks in the walls and the dust on the baseboards—things I would ordinarily happily overlook. When I do my down dog push-ups in the living room, I suddenly spot the crumbs under the sofa and am torn between whether I should immediately run for the dustpan or finish the set.
I haven’t yet found a rhythm. I should be reading Moby Dick or Jen Offill’s new book Weather rather than listening to the news all day. My earpods are beginning to fuse to my ears. I spend too much time cooking—a result of my never having had to plan so many meals at once (the once a week shopping trip). On the bright side, as I was rummaging through the freezer today, I discovered some pesto sauce that I’d made last summer. We enjoyed pasta tonight for the first time in months (pasta being ordinarily off limits).