Coming home

There's something crazily comforting about coming home. Growing up how I did, moving every three years at the longest, home has always meant where family is, where I feel I have permission to be me without the pressures of the outside world. I have spent the last few days helping with maple syrup at my parents' place in the country. I have spent the last few days tromping through the woods in rubber boots, pj pants, dirty t-shirt, man's work coat and tilley hat. The look is beyond unattractive and only makes me want to grab a camera and post the resulting picture as my profile pic on a dating website.