Our relationship is exactly as it is this very moment - some of you have met me, most have not - but for whatever reason, I have invited you to stay at my house for a short period of time - let’s say a week. Once you arrive, I help you get settled in the guest room, show you where the spare towels and TP are, offer you refreshment, and your visit begins. I show you where the glasses, coffee cups, and ice can be found. I’ll set up the coffee maker if you need it. I point out the pantry and where we keep our sodas. I’ll give you the WiFi password. And, quite sincerely, I invite you to make yourself at home and ask if there’s anything you need.
Now what? As a charming host, I’ll make conversation and do my best to ensure you’re at ease, because I’m nice, dammit. We may do some touristy things or go out to eat (in a plague-free world) and let’s assume we enjoy each other’s company. But I don’t feel it’s my duty to entertain you 24/7, and I assume you’ll enjoy some time to yourself.
Would you feel comfortable enough to make yourself a drink or sandwich, or grab some pretzels from the pantry? Would you wander around, looking at the assorted artwork hanging on the walls? Would you want to take a walk around the neighborhood then come back inside without feeling the need to knock? Would you want to play the piano? Would you ask to use the washer if you ran out of clean underwear? Would you feel compelled to scrub the tub after you shower? Bottom line, how at home do you feel when you’re a houseguest?