I don't really want to go home

Vacation, sadly, has come to an end. Twenty-four hours from now, I expect to be somewhere over Kansas; somewhere between the three waypoints there - Goodland, Hill City and Kansas City, Mo., just across the river, part of the red-eye route from Las Vegas to Baltimore.

I'll be dragged kicking onto that plane, however.

I really don't want to go home.

I've been incredibly happy here the past 10 days and honestly, it's depressing to have to think about leaving.

I don't want to go back to the humidity of the east coast. My father-in-law mentioned he saw the forecasted low for D.C. in the coming days: 77.

I don't want to go back to the hustle of the Boston-Washington megalopolis. I'm was doing just fine with the considerably more laid-back attitude of the northwest.

I don't want to go back to being one in a city of 200,000 in a metro region of several million. I was happy being one of 75,000 in a region with little more than that.

I don't want to go back to seeing only buildings in the skyline.

I don't want to go back and jump into the daily grind of work - particularly when we're all stuck doing desk shifts because we haven't had enough quality candidates to become our assistant sports editor (or so we're told).

I don't want to go back and begin thinking hard about football - it's less than 20 days away for me.

I do want to go back to see family and friends and the cats.

But beyond that, I've been pretty happy where I've been.

Too bad it won't last - and I'm incredibly depressed that it won't.