I'm back in Athens. Mostly, it feels like I never left.
The best way to deal with this is to wash your sheets. One of my favorite things in the world is stepping from a hot shower, preferably my toweled-off skin is still pink and steaming at this point, and slipping into freshly laundered sheets. I'd like to think I'm not very prissy but I cannot do dirty sheets or towels. I would rather go weeks wearing the same clothes without showering than be made to use a musty towel. When a houseguest at my twentysomething friends' houses, I am often caught giving a proffered bath towel a surreptitious sniff-test. Sorry, guys. A dank towel isn't worth the risk. To borrow a phrase, it gags my maggots.
Household neuroses aside, I suppose it is nice to have my very own space and plenty of it. To not feel, however unfounded, like a big ol' mooch. To feel productive. To set my alarm for something, not just out of habit.
Still, with the leaves shed from all trees, I can see headlights on US 33 from my bedroom window. And I want to be on it, heading west.
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