shakespearemom

Last night my husband asked me if I wanted to drive over to a vacation area today–I think it’s a lake out east somewhere, over the mountain range and into eastern Washington. It’s supposed to be beautiful, and many people who live in western Washington own time-shares out there, and it’s their favorite place in the state to vacation. Richard seemed pretty excited about going out there, and he thought it would be fun for the whole family.

I said no.

It’s not that I don’t want to see the lake. It’s not that I don’t want to spend time with him, or goof around with the family. It’s not that I don’t want to be outside, or do anything fun.

But I’m tired of going places. I’m tired of traveling, of setting up tent, of being in the car, of figuring out what we’re going to eat for lunch when we aren’t at home. I’m also tired of having a pit for a house, of feeling as if my whole world at home is little more than chaos. I need my bathrooms clean, my garden weeded, my floors vacuumed, my laundry, well, laundered.

And I need to write. I need to spend the morning getting my house into shape, and spend the afternoon writing.

Maybe then I’ll want to head off to the lake. Or visit Mom for Labor Day weekend. Or go to the fair again. Or go antique shopping in Duvall or Snohomish. Maybe I’ll be ready for another adventure to Spokane, or a day trip to almost anywhere.

Then, maybe I won’t. At this point, I can’t tell.

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