I’ve been on the road far too long.
Last night was Thanksgiving dinner up at the cottage. Good food, family, friend (there was only one), and good times. Even better sleep, in my old bed (since co-opted for use in the loft).
Mom and Cathy drove me down to the airport. We made a side trip to see a rather uninteresting antique dealer in Gravenhurst. Aside from that and a couple of bathroom breaks, we made Pearson in a fairly good time.
We grabbed a late lunch at Swiss Chalet. I checked my luggage after eating, and we switched to the bar.
Even though I was at the airport, boarding pass to Calgary in hand, I didn’t really feel like I was going anywhere. I was in a bar with my family, as I’ve been (a few too) many times this year.
Mom and Cathy were soon off for Oakville, leaving me to wait for my flight. (We left early to beat the returning weekend traffic. We left perhaps a little too early.)
I waited at gate B20 for about an hour, reading Wired. Nothing out of the ordinary (at least for me, lately). Even when WestJet staff started yelling for passengers (the microphone to the PA system wasn’t working), there was no rush. For me, it’s all routine.
I think I’ve actually travelled too much this year.
But as I boarded the plane and took my seat, a feeling of reserved relief crept upon me. I’m going home. My month and a half abroad is ending in a few short hours. Tonight I will sleep in my own bed in my own home. I will see my cats. (Tomorrow, I’ll have to go back to my job — hey, it can’t all be roses.)
I’m tired. Take me home. Please.