This morning I actually contemplated returning to my Tennessee roots. Permanently.
I know a kneejerk reaction when I have one but still the detail of my thinking alarmed me.
I could work at the weekly newspaper, I told myself. They don't seem to put their journalistic cookies on too high a shelf so it wouldn't be taxing work by any means.
I could easily rent one of the numerous town homes or maybe even buy a country estate given that prices are not that high there.
I could live out my days shocking the townsfolk with my offbeat ways.
And I could rationalize my disconnectedness with the opposite sex on the fact that there the supply is limited.
I wouldn't have to deal with feeling past my dating prime at 44. I wouldn't have to wonder about the crazies next door because I'd be the crazy one. I wouldn't feel overwhelmed with unresolved issues between friends, in politics, in the church.
I'd just be.
The whole dream sequence lasted only minutes but, like a too tangerine body wash, the sense of longing is still present.