It's called Realism

I had to work pretty hard to convince myself to come back to my old stomping grounds. It felt like defeat, walking away from my crazy adventures and unpredictability. I assured myself that it would only be temporary and made lists in my head of reasons that "it'll be great". But I didn't know if I actually believed me. But I was right--at least, the voice inside that made those lists was. And here I sit, utterly content with exactly where I am right now and, for possibly the first time in forever, not needing to run away. I've never been known for my optimism. In fact I've been called a pessimist (although I vehemently argue that "realist" is the appropriate term). But the reality is that this time it seems like all the ordinary goings on of life are adventures.
I have a job. A steady, same-schedule-all-week, weekends-off kind of job. And I love it.
I have to use an alarm to get up in the morning. And I love it.
I'm learning the need for a reasonable bedtime. And I... am getting used to it.
I'm busy all day and exhausted at bedtime. And I love it.
I can go out on the weekends. And I'm getting used to it.
I've had to learn a particular life skill that I skipped in my human development-it's called asking for help. And I'm starting to not dread it as much. 
I bike when I need to get somewhere, and when I get tired I just remember how fit I'm going to be by the time I leave here. And then I love it.
I remember how lucky I am to have a job to go to and a body that is capable of riding a bike. I'm lucky to have people around to ask for help and hopefully return that service to. I'm now torn between the two lifestyles that I've come to appreciate. And I can actually say that the grass is green on my side.