Darkness.

I never realized that I was raised in a dark house. I’m not saying that we didn’t have light bulbs or that we were nocturnal creatures. Nor am I saying that there was no ambient sunlight coming in. There was no duck and cover act with a supernatural hiss if sunlight came rushing in. It’s just that we kept all of our windows closed and well covered. The blinds were typically closed tight and the curtains were drawn over them. Now I know this sounds sinister and it conjures up images of the house you walked by as a child and wondered what devious plans the occupants were formulating behind their darkened windows. Yet it was nothing like that. My parents were just people who enjoyed their privacy.
We were creatures of solitude, which is because we were truly creatures of habit. We went to the same restaurants when we went out to eat and ordered the meals we knew we liked. When we went on vacation we went to the same locations, in the same hotels, going to the same putt-putt courses and driving miles for the same restaurants. Perhaps our darkened state of living was merely due to our natural drive to be habitual. It was habit to draw the shades and enjoy a certain level of ambiguity.
My life is a constant demonstration of being habitual. Although I do strive to step outside of my boundaries whenever possible. I try to push my boundaries of comfort by trying new foods, going to new destinations and meeting new people, but my habitual state likes to have its way in the end. I always find myself sliding back into that comfortable spot I know so well. I like to sitting in my favorite chair, invite over my closest friends, pop in my favorite movie and see if I can draw those curtains just a little bit tighter. I like living in a dark house.