While I’ve always had difficulty sleeping in unfamiliar places (I blame my mother for this entirely—she never let me spend the night out as a kid) I absolutely adore waking up in them. Yes, I’m red-eyed and weary, but I feel an overwhelming sense of “take that mom!” satisfaction.
This morning I woke up in our new digs. It’s the same building, so you’d think that would prevent my sleepless night, but no. My mother was good.
The new apartment is a total disaster. There are boxes (scratch that, we boxed nothing— there are trash bags) everywhere and absolutely no food, soap, or towels to be found—but I did set up my coffee pot, grinder, beans, and creamer before going to bed last night. (I should probably blame mum for the coffee addiction too.)
Groggy and running on little sleep, I brewed my java, hurdled over the bookshelf and landed on our unassembled couch. I flung open the patio, listened to the rain, and stared out at my garden/overgrown shrubs and wondered, “could those tall stalks be corn?”
I totally forgot where I was.
