Home, sweet home. I didn’t realize how much I missed Starbucks and a washing machine that doesn’t take 2.5 hours to do a load, until I got home (of course, now I miss my daily pain au chocolat and having only a small selection of my wardrobe to choose from daily – #firstworldproblems).
It’s been odd being home. My first few days were a blur, since they were loaded with jetlag and unrealistic self-imposed expectations. But I’ve been home for almost a week now and I’m feeling more….settled, I suppose. It’s been a bit strange adjusting to “real life” again, even though my life in France wasn’t all that different from life here. But there….there just seemed to be more time. And realistically, I know that there are the same 24 hours in the day there as there are here, but somehow they disperse themselves differently. I haven’t quite figured out how that happens.
On thing that has become increasingly obvious to me since I’ve been home is how “ill-fitting” I feel like I am, here in this little life I’m living. I realize that probably makes no sense, but let’s see if I can explain. Being in Bordeaux was like being in my own perfect, solitary universe. I was by myself for two whole weeks. I had no coffee dates, no meetings, no real interactions with people, no explaining to do – just writing, reading, learning and living. I did exactly what I wanted to do, whenever I felt like doing it. Sure, I had commitments, but they were commitments I was happy to have, and for the most part, they were flexible and I could attend to them when I felt like it. When hubby arrived for the final two weeks, he just squeezed into the empty space and we lived in our own perfect universe of two.
But coming home, the old, stand-by, evil thoughts start creeping in, and I’m having to battle feeling like the choices I’m making are somehow wrong. I’m realizing my discomfort of being in my own life boils down to this feeling that I am living my life incorrectly – and that’s a shitty feeling to have, when deep down, I’m living the life that feels right for me.
So, in an effort to banish those evil wrong feelings, I’ve decided to wage a bit of a war. I’m making a list of all those cruddy, self- and society-imposed expectations that don’t seem to fit me, and I’m dreaming up ways to tell them off. Maybe a future post?
Hell, yes! Kudos to you for 1) choosing France (my fave country); 2) being alone for two weeks in a foreign country (you’d be amazed [or not] how this seems to scare so many women); 3) being self-reflective enough to think this through; 4) being willing to act on it.
American culture (I guess you’re American) is fucked up. Work til you drop. Make a shitload of dough but never have time to spend it. Eat junk food, get obese and diabetic. Never see your family or friends because work is the primary goal.
Not! I lived eight months in France at the age of 25 on a journalism fellowship and have been back many times since and plan to retire there. Not every culture is as poisonous as the one I live and work in (NY/USA) and seeing/living firsthand other choices is indeed enough to make “home” feel like not home after all.
Bon courage!