So, I’m (almost) back from NYC. Just a two-hour layover and 45-minute flight more (a layover should never be longer than the subsequent flight). And y’all, as much as I love New York and any other big city where my company is paying for my food and lodging I’m just ready to be home.

I’ve pretty much been moving nonstop since I left Knoxville at 5 a.m. last Thursday. I worked a few long hours but more importantly I worked some late hours, which has left me with a severe lack of sleep. When you get off work at 2 a.m., don’t get into bed until 3, don’t fall asleep until 3:30 or 4 and then awake to the sound of the housekeeping staff banging around your floor at 9ish every. single. day., then your sleeping hours tend to suffer.

Add to that I found it necessary to be on the go every single second that I was not sleeping or working just to be sure I didn’t miss any little chance to see someone or something — anything — in a city that I can’t afford to visit on a regular basis, well, let’s just say my brain is tired, my glutes are sore and my shoulders ache.

Grand Central Terminal. More NYC photos to come

And while I was constantly on the go and doing quite a lot of people watching, I noticed something that makes me realize that despite my love for good public transit (Gawd I love subway systems), tasty and diverse food, an amazingly regal library, museums and shopping! — yes shopping with an !, I realized exactly why I can never live in NY, besides the fact that I couldn’t comfortably live there on my salary anyway.

Black, stretchy yoga pants or rather the lack thereof.

‘But!’ you say, ‘You can buy black, stretchy yoga pants on nearly every corner in SoHo! What’s the problem?!?’

Keep up here: I am a woman who loves her lounging. On my days off, odds are I’m in the black, stretchy yoga pants that were part of the sorority girl uniform (with New Balances and North Face jackets) when I was in college. And yes, I even dare to wear those pants out in public to places that don’t involve downward-facing dogs. In fact, so do most other women of comparable age or social standing.

That’s not the case in NY.

‘But!’ you might say, ‘Those leggings that EVERY SINGLE PERSON is wearing as pants in NY are pretty dang close to black, stretchy pants.’

Not quite so when they’re paired with high-heeled boots and fancy sweaters and a fancy hairstyle.

My point is that NY doesn’t rest. At all. Ever. And neither do most people who live there. Sure, they have apartments that I don’t see while I’m hoofing down 34th Street, but those apartments are small and not the kind of places you lounge for extended periods of time. But running to the corner to get a cup of coffee never seems to be done in black, stretchy pants. No, because running to the corner probably involves a train ride in between and a few more blocks of walking, so while you’re at it you might as well dress yourself properly because while you’re out you might stop at a dozen other places.

I love it, to an extent. But I need my lounge time too. And my black, stretchy yoga pants.

Which is why I’m not bothered by the fact that after eight days in NYC, I get to return home to Knoxville. This is much to my surprise, because usually when I go to visit lovely large cities like Chicago or San Francisco, I loathe leaving. But no, I’m ready for Knoxville. Where I can lounge in my black, stretchy pants. Which I will eventually do in that house that I’m in the process of buying.

Oh, I forgot to tell you I’m under contract on a house? In due time, in due time. First, I must sleep. For about a week.