The fine art of being a homebody

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I admit it. I’m a homebody.  I prefer my back yard to the Grand Canyon, and my very own bed to those hard hotel beds where the sheets are tucked in so tight you feel like you’re in a straight jacket.

And I hate, hate, hate, those hotel bathtubs where the back rest was designed for a swayback person.  No way can you just relax and soak.  Who came up with those bathtubs anyway?

I like people and enjoy their company, but I prefer to be huddled around my fireplace serving chili and grilled cheese sandwiches and watching reruns of Northern Exposure.

Apparently, I’m not alone.  People are staying home rather than taking elaborate vacations or visiting expensive restaurants on a regular basis.  We were considering a trip to Portland to watch Mississippi State play basketball tomorrow, but the cheapest ticket on such short notice was about $1100.  That’s four months of groceries at my place!

I’ll be watching the game, glued to my television set with a bowl of tortilla chips and bathroom only 20 steps away.  Heck, I’m saving so much money I may splurge and buy five pounds of shrimp. Now, isn’t that preferable to packing a bag and getting the pets to the Vet? Rebel Dawn and Lucky think so.

Some attribute the retreat to home bound living to the craving for intimacy and familiarity, after the wrenching dislocations of Sept. 11, a war that won’t end,  and an economy that seems more uncertain with each passing day.

I’m noticing a return to frugality even on the part of my most affluent friends.  There seems to be a mindset of  “inconspicuous consumption.” We still consume, we just do it with more finesse.  Maybe we’ll learn something in the process.

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