Conclusions, anyone?

Dear future hubster,

having spent a significant amount of time reflecting on life course in general and mine in particular, and having concluded that I have been living outside my comfort zone for quite a while, somewhat alarming thoughts rose in my head.

While trying to define the fluid concept of the comfort zone, I often refer to my Luxembourg sofa (which is technically Kristina's). Then the Tshukudu one. Pisti's, with the animal bedsheets, and the most refreshing sleeps and occasional Champions' League's finals. Shari's, with history, Ricky Martin music videos and copious amounts of alcohol. 

Now, in terms of comfort zone, this seems to suggest that mine involves a sofa, which often isn't mine.