So, here I am on Saturday night, I find myself getting comfy and cozy in my home, surrounded by the sound of countless hours spent immersed in the simple pleasures of life. Typing down the story of my unapologetically lazy existence. After more than ten years on this rollercoaster called adulthood, it's finally hit me – I'm a proud homebody.
There's this place I call home. Not just a roof over my head, mind you; it's my sanctuary, my bubble of bliss. It's where I can be me, do me, without a care in the world. Sure, it comes with bills and stuff, but honestly, it's worth every lazy second spent lounging around.
Now, I won't lie; I do venture out into the wild world for about 30% of my week – a necessary evil they call the office. It's the means to an end, the cash cow that keeps this homebody paradise afloat. I've learned to appreciate the irony in toiling away at a job just to come back and revel in the glory of my mortgage-funded kingdom. Life is a weird and wonderful cycle, my friend.
Chores, once the bane of my existence, have become oddly therapeutic. There's a zen-like state I achieve while washing the dishes or vacuuming the floors – a meditative trance that comes with the hum of appliances and the rhythmic clinking of cleaning supplies. Speaking about chores, the therapeutic kind is somewhat become the unexpected muse of my creativity. Ideas for solving problems seem to pop into my head effortlessly. It's as if the hum of appliances is a secret portal to efficiency, and the rhythmic clinking of cleaning supplies sparks wild and untouched ideas. This domestic work transforms into a brainstorming session.
And then there's the magic that happens when chores bleed into my writing and other creative endeavors. The wild ideas, untouched by the constraints of convention, flow seamlessly from the domestic realm into the landscape of my imagination. It's a collision of the mundane and the extraordinary, resulting in a big bang of creativity that is both therapeutic and electrifying.
Then there's the reading. Oh boy, the reading. My bedroom, cooled by the blissful hum of the air conditioner (a necessity in Indonesia's insane humidity), is my personal sanctuary. I've strategically arranged five trusty IKEA pieces to cradle my ever-growing library collection and wifi-adjusted lights that are suitable for reading and sleeping. In this chilled retreat, I lose myself in the pages of fiction, assuming various positions for hours on end. It's not just reading; it's a mental vacation, a journey through the realms of imagination that requires no passport, no suitcase, just a comfy nook in the best mattress in the world.
Cooking and baking – now that's where the real magic happens. I've turned my kitchen into a culinary playground, experimenting with flavors and textures that would make Gordon Ramsay raise an eyebrow. The sizzle of a pan or the aroma of fresh cookies– it's not just about feeding my belly; it's about feeding my soul with the simple joy of creating something delicious.
And let's not forget my newfound talents in sewing and home improvement. Need a button sewn on? I'm your guy. Want to spruce up the living room with a DIY project? I've got the tools and the questionable skills to match. Who knew a needle and some fabric could bring so much joy, or that fixing a leaky faucet could feel like conquering Mt. Everest? But honestly, ever since the new house coming, I have not touched my sewing gear in last 4 months, the weekends are not enough for my homebody soul.
So here I am, living my best couch potato life, reveling in the irony that my mortgage – the supposed 'biggest cost' – is the golden ticket to this lazy utopia. Life's too short to be constantly hustling, and I've found my sweet spot in the cozy corners of my own four walls, it's not like I am a hermit. For those who knows me, I am pretty much social butterfly and I use my weekends to recharge my energy in my own sanctuary.
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