Sometimes I wonder exactly what percentage of the time I spend doing stuff I’ll have to confess or apologize for later.  I have a feeling I run on about a 20% efficiency rate, which is even lower than the HVAC system we just had inspected in our new house (Ed. note: contract pending).

Take yesterday, when I ran by said house to meet The Husband, who was there for the entire inspection so I wouldn’t have to be (he knows these things make me bored at best, panicky at worst).  After fifteen minutes, I had reached my fill of someone pointing out all of our new possession’s flaws–I got enough of that in dental school–and signed some papers brought by the realtor so that I could hightail it back to the couch, my waiting Bible, and a cup of coffee.  As the last drop of caffeinated goodness fell into my Crate and Barrel wedding registry mug, the phone rang.  It was The Husband, calling to tell me that I hadn’t signed all the paperwork and would need to go back to the house to do so.  Frustrated with him (for no reason), real estate, and ultimately myself, I hung up the phone as violently as one can a touch screen (finger jab = pain) and slammed the only thing I could, which was my new cup of coffee.  On my Bible.  Well if that isn’t a metaphor, I thought, brown liquid dripping onto leather-bound wisdom.  (All our best efforts are like…)  My only accomplishment before noon: being a gigantic ass.

I went to see The Sis and The Niece later, and the baby smell was wearing off after I left their house and was merging onto GA 400.  Which must explain why, as a car cut in front of me and nearly rammed the front driver’s side (MY SECTION!!!), I yelled out a string of insults at the driver.  Most of them really weren’t fair, considering I don’t know his mother, but for a few moments, the inside of my car blasted with the decibels of my own self-righteousness.  I gave the guy a sarcastic thumbs-up as I passed him, an improvement over the digit I normally use on such occasions, and drove on.  I thought about how The Sis is starting to take The Niece out on excursions in the car now (she LOVES Target) and how much angrier I will be when I have a child in the car and get cut off.  As in, angrier than now, which is both hard to imagine and threatening to my blood pressure.  Serenity now, I thought.  NOW, dammit! Meanwhile, my Bible lay at home in the remains of brown stickiness, unopened for the day.  Time for an on-site tutorial.  Nicole Nordeman’s voice was the next to pop up from my iPod playlist (in between DMX and R.E.M., mind you), and as she sang about how deep the Father’s love is for me, my lead foot eased off the pedal and my heart began to slowly unwind from its mortal coil.  Who I am in traffic is not the truest thing about me, thank God.  I headed home.

I may have a lot of work to do on myself, but not nearly as much as has been done on my behalf.  Besides, as Kanye West might say, “I’m trying to right my wrongs, but it’s funny them same songs helped me write this [blog].”  Dear Kanye: you may have even me beat in the jerk category, but you just nailed grace.

I never need an excuse to be selfish, but I do think that our impending move, demolition-construction project, and their inevitable unsettledness has me on an especially thin edge right now.  And anxiety has a way of tinting our view so that we see greener grasses in the wrong places.  Like New York, where grass barely grows outside of Central Park.  The Husband and I went to dinner at Table 1280 at the High Museum recently.  As we walked out we passed Symphony Hall and I saw a crowd of people in the lobby.  Intermission, I thought, and my mind drifted back to Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center.  And in that moment, my heart ached with a New York longing so sharp took my breath away: the bagel shop, the hills of the park, the crowd of people of all colors and backgrounds and opinions gathered in one place to appreciate beauty.  I missed it.

Then The Husband and I got in the car on the way to our spacious apartment and blasted the radio and opened the sunroof and I was okay.

Bipolar?  Maybe.  (Actually, not.  I’ve taken quizzes.)  But it’s clear to me that in this world, I will always be between destinations.  Always in transit, on my way to somewhere: the weekend, a new Chuck episode, a better attitude.  And with a heart that finds and longs for home in multiple locations, I am thankful that I’m not there yet.  Home, that is.  Because of all the places I’m headed, Home–a place I believe to be devoid of traffic and full of baby smell–is the last stop.