A very nice lady was just in this afternoon to close my mortgage refinance. We talked and joked and I signed a zillion sheets of paper and handed over a scary amount of money (but I’ve done worse over the years; buying a house on the island with 20% down takes a lot out of you).
The previous night, though still sick, I cleaned and vacuumed but it probably wasn’t enough after two weeks of being poorly. Still, it had a purpose, and so wasn’t bad.
After she left, I realized that I’ve never had anybody else but me sit at that dining room table, which I bought in the overexcitement of having my own place. It’s been a few years.
It’s a perfect size for most board games. It can, if you extend the wings, almost fit most of Arkham Horror on it (which is a long way to go to set up a solitaire game, but oh, so worth it).
It was strange, having another person in the house, sitting there. I have to start inviting friends over, once I’m well enough to clean like crazy. Although I am, as you might imagine, a bit short on friends due to my general paranoia.
But it felt good to have someone else there. And I wasn’t scared or nervy, which tends to happen when I’m around people. Especially people I’m familiar with—they see a flirty ditz, but my pulse is through the roof.
I wasn’t scared. I didn’t know her, of course. But still.
I’m sure the feeling will go away.
On the other hand, maybe this means I’m starting to go native, in this strange land where it’s impolite to hit someone, even in private.
But I’m so not letting anyone else in until I’ve cleaned the kitchen counter and vacuumed the sofa and dusted everything, omg.