Homebody

In which I realize that it is, in fact, necessary to leave the house sometimes. Here's why.

I would be an excellent candidate for house arrest if I ever committed a crime heinous enough to warrant it.

Home is the Good Place. I never want to leave it. I am convinced I could live happily for months — years, perhaps — without setting foot outside our front yard. Whether this is an asset or a deficiency, I’m still not sure.

It must say something good about me that I can feel so content within the four walls of our home. Some inherent low-maintenance-ness, perhaps? An intrinsic appreciation for the simple things in life?

Sometimes, I worry that this tendency speaks to an abject lack of curiosity or motivation, that I might be boring, but then I think about poor Princess Jasmine being whirled around on that flying carpet while Aladdin wails about showing her the world, and honestly, it just seems like a lot.

How about we stay in and read books together in silence? Sip cups of hot tea with the fire going? Or perhaps you can zip around on that death trap of a carpet if that’s what you’re into, and then come back to tell me about it (and bring me a little treat)!

Whether through lived example or genetic inheritance, I seem to have passed this proclivity for homebodiness down to Olive. While I don’t think it’s a bad thing, I also don’t want her to look back on her childhood and have no memories of us going anywhere or doing anything, so I regularly try to force us to leave the house.

Leaving the house usually starts with an enthusiastic pep talk that’s as much for me as it is for her: "OK, Olive, we really should go. Where? I don’t know, but somewhere. Somewhere out. Good things happen out there, sometimes. Most of the time, probably! Other people go out all the time. I’m sure there’s a reason for it! Come on, it’ll be great!”

I end up almost dragging her, feral and hissing, out the front door while trying to hide the fact that I’m dragging my own feet, too. I try to find fun things for us to do, make it memorable, and reinforce how great it is to be out! Making memories! But honestly, I sometimes end the day feeling exhausted and bedraggled and thinking to myself, “Oh god, was that really worth it?”

Everything I need is here. And I love seeing people and being in social situations, but not that much, maybe? Or perhaps just not all the time? I go through varying degrees of hermitishness and lately, it’s been off the charts.

I think the balance tipped permanently for me during COVID.

There were two types of people during COVID — the extroverted types, who withered at home without friends and family and social events, and the introverts like me, who were not-so-secretly relieved that they could finally cloister themselves at home, guilt-free.

After the worst of the restrictions had lifted, the extroverts burst back onto the scene full-force, extroverting harder than they’d ever extroverted before, trying to make up for lost time. I, on the other hand, had grown accustomed to the slower pace of lockdown life. I relished the quiet, the solitude, and the lack of obligations. I felt reluctant to give it up — Gollum guarding his precious ring.

But at what point does a homebody become a recluse? When does a cute quirk become a character flaw?

And, perhaps most importantly, when am I at risk of creating a Grey Gardens-type situation?