Ten o'clock and I'm the first one home. I was also the last to leave - fifteen hours ago. It's ten at night, but it's still close to 75 degrees outside. We're getting everything we complained about missing last Summer, and I couldn't be more pleased. Stiffling heat isn't so bad when you've been penned a few hundred feet above streeet level in an climate controlled, modern day factory for 12 consecutive hours. Nope, sweltering heat is not so bad at all. Maybe it's the schadenfreude.
The hot, still air when I walk through my front door is like a "welcome home, honey." After a full day of clicking and whirring, phones ringing, questions, objections, hollow smalltalk and meeting reminder dings, the silence of a closed up empty house grabs my attention.
It's hot and stuffy - and I like it. It smells like me and my stuff and my place. My animal brain, adept at reading complex layers of scents like my primal ancestors, calls up old memories. They are the same memories I subconsciously revisit everytime I smell this smell and that calms me. I love routines - especially the kind that take no effort.