Ever since returning from our own version of odyssey last week, I’ve been in a funk. From the sublime to the ridiculous, my mother used to say . . . whenever transitions to chores from something fun were too abrupt.
After an exquisite two-week cruise on a smallish ship (300 passengers) from Athens to Istanbul and back to Athens, our routine seems dull indeed. Our trip included visits to archeological sites spanning three-thousand years, visits to picturesque island towns, lively dinner conversations with fellow travelers, stimulating lectures by onboard scholars, fabulous sunsets, stars and seabirds all framed by the deep blue of the Aegean Sea. If that wasn’t enough, a cabin attendant refreshed our towels several times a day and turned down our bed linens every evening. Spoiled? I loved it. No wonder I don’t want to do anything now that I’m home again in Lake Forest Park. On top of all the aforementioned pleasure, we were entertained several times a day by a trio of classically trained Romanian musicians who played as if we personally had hired them . . .well, it was very easy to get used to . . . such a quantity of delight.
I thought I’d be inspired after such a vacation to work all the harder once home. Instead, I’m walking through my house thinking of things to do and then immediately thinking of reasons why I’m not going to do them. Other than catch up with the laundry, phone a few friends and “the kids,” pot a few geraniums and plant sixty marigold starters, pay the bills, and daydream . . . I haven’t done much. Oh, except that each day, at least once, an incoming phone call announces the eminent arrival of a real estate agent with a prospective buyer. That raises the adrenaline and means a quick run around the house, closing drawers, stuffing shoes in the closet, hiding wet towels in the dryer, covering private paperwork, turning off the computers, locking the hiding place where the precious trinkets and better jewelry have been stored, closing toilet lids, turning on all the lights, hiding the dish drainer, wet sponge and the utensil bowl, fixing shade heights and mini-blind angles, sweeping the kitchen, wiping up footprints in the tile hallway, closing the shower curtain, putting away toothbrushes and the hairdryer, hiding the laundry, and ah-h-h . . . then leave the house for half-an-hour. Returning means undoing some of the above . . . and re-engaging with whatever we were doing before the call came.
So here we are with lovely memories and a looming task ahead of us: SELL THE HOUSE. Indeed, we’re making a transition from the sublime to the ridiculous.
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