9:10 a.m.

My parents just left. I thought I would be happy but I'm not.

Things were so much easier when they were here, on simple physical levels and more complex emotional levels. The Boy left for New Brunswick yesterday morning, and it was easier to fix meals and to sleep at night with someone else in the house. It was easier to plan my day, knowing that I was entertaining & being entertained every second that I wasn't in class. It was easier to go out, knowing that if I wanted or needed something -- a hairbrush, running shoes, milk -- they would pay for it right away and I wouldn't have to do the old mental can-I-afford-it? dance. It was easier to go to class knowing that people who loved me were waiting for me to come home. It was easier to be nice to the Boy, because he didn't have to love me enough for 10 people.

It was easier to look forward to a return to Toronto because they knew why I would want to come home, and they would not think that I was weak or cowardly for making my home where it is easiest to live.

It was easier to remember who I was, and who I'd like to be.

When they drove away, I wanted to chase them & make them take me along. That feeling is gone now, but I still wish the Boy was with me to take the edge off this loneliness. I think that means that it was a pretty good visit.

Oh. I have a lot to clean up, and many new things to assimilate into my life. The fridge is full of food, both left-over and uncooked. I have a series of new mats in the bathroom, front hall & kitchen - even a long yoga mat to replace the small foam squares available at the gym. I have runners & a soft fleece outfit for me to wear at SMILE, and although I've spent most of my adult life running, dodging & weaving away from athletic gear, I have to admit that this doesn't look half-bad. I also have a reef of clothes in the study to be sorted, a task that was too big to contemplate when my parents had possession of our bedroom. There are tour books littering the living room. There are empty bags everywhere. This will take awhile.

1 p.m.

I just put on my new fleece outfit, the first time I've worn it outside the store. Mmmmm. It's soft soft soft - much like my first flannel shirt, which I bought at the age of 16 back when grunge was "it." (Old. I am. So old.) I keep thinking of Jerry Seinfeld saying that when you wear sweatpants out of the house it means that you've given up. But damn...it's like being in bed all day long. I guess I have given up.

At least it's black. And I'm even more fun to hug now; like a plush version of the old me. Oh. If only there someone around to hug, I mean. (Cue sad music.) Oh, don't get too worked up on my behalf. Right this minute, thousands of people are being bombed further into the Stone Age. I have a roof over my head, fresh food to eat, the freedom to walk around in hot pants & my husband is coming back to me after work. I have no problems to speak of, just a sudden expansion of self-concept. I am now a girl who has cause to wear black fleece & white runners -- that ain't too bad.