My outsides are wrapped up in a vintage Pendleton blanket my Dad found (this thing is so good and warm that if it were anyone else’s I’d steal it in a heartbeat).
It’s well after midnight.
My insides are full of red wine and lemon poppy seed muffins.
I am also filled with the kind of tired happiness that can only be felt on a Sunday evening. With a weekend of motion behind you, and the upcoming week rolling out ahead of you with empty promise.
It snowed unceasingly all day, so much so that I got snowed in at my parents. Not an altogether unpleasant thing. In fact quite a pleasant one. Not only for the fact of there being a thermos of coffee on the counter all day and food to help yourself to, but also the warmth of the familiar presence of each individual in this home of mine.
For even though I no longer live here, it is still one of my homes.
I spend so much time alone it’s nice to be around others, even if they’re just in the vicinity while I do my own thing. I prefer that actually, most of the time. A passive and communal togetherness.
Having internet (a very foreign thing to me as I have lived without it for over a year now) has led to an equally productive and unproductive day as I am now fully caught up with my accounting but conversely have spent an embarrassing amount of time on Etsy favoriting vintage 1970s sheepskin jackets…
But such are the things snow days should be made of.
Puzzle building and fires, late night walks through white powdery streets and laughing over the camaraderie of a day off from the outside world.