This week I realised something that the rest of you have probably known for ages.
I’m a homebody.
My ideal Friday night in Paris is not, in fact, dining in a Michelin-starred restaurant, followed by champagne in an exclusive club on the Champs-Elysées. Nor is it bar-hopping in the Marais or attending a sold-out concert.
It’s home-delivered sushi, a good book and some warm slipper-socks. And tea.
Lots of tea.
On non-work days, I try to plan my errands in the most efficient order possible to avoid being outside the apartment any more than necessary. When I travel, I like to rent apartments with nice bathrooms and inviting kitchens. I’ve even been known to travel with my own pillow. And my own tea.
And yet, I live 17,000 kilometres from home, in a furnished apartment where even the tea towels aren’t mine. I have no fixed office and so spend my days on the metro, rushing from one side of the city to another. And I like change.
I like predictability and plans, and yet in the past five years I’ve lived in seven different apartments in three different cities, across two continents.
I shop at one of ten different grocery stores depending on my mood but I always buy the same thing at the bakery.
I love the making of lists, but the doing of the stuff always trips me up.
How then, does one reconcile all of that?
Is it possible to live a balanced life as a restless nester?
Image courtesy of sara..wood on Flickr