Oooh, this spice rack has cardamom!

          This happens to me every once in a while. I suddenly and inexplicably am struck with the sudden desire to be out of here - done with school, living in my own space, working, writing, being a part of the real world. I want to know what life is like outside of the protective bubble of college. How do you meet people? When you move to a new city (lacking that safety net called a residential campus), how do you make friends? Having a social life, while never easy, will suddenly take a whole lot more effort. I want to put together a budget, despite my almost chronic fear of finances and paperwork. I'm excited to paint walls, hang up photos, scour thrift stores for semi-matching sets of silverware.
          I want to make someplace my own, original and quirky. I think part of this is a desire to be a complete, thinking, adult person. I think there's a link in my mind between being an interesting, independent woman and having an interesting, unique home - there's a parallel. If my house is quirky and cozy and clean and bright and welcoming, it must follow that I am, too. It's like choosing an outfit to reflect (or create?) your personality, but on a slower, larger, altogether more expensive scale. Or you could argue that this is yet another example of my housewifeliness, I suppose. I am embarrassingly excited to pick out paint and dishes and towels and clocks and saucepans. I fill up with ideas to sew pot-holders and curtains and quilts and aprons and placemats. Whisks and blenders make me go all weak in the knees. Don't talk to me about loveseats. Or lamps.
          Yes, I realize I'm a hopeless and incurable dork.

          I think the allure (however imagined or foolishly naive) is the simplicity of being domestic. It isn't hard to make scrambled eggs or a cake. Vacuuming, though tedious, does not present a huge mental dilemma. The idea of a house - tiny, old, worn, its corners gone soft and rounded - seems so perfect to me. Simple, a space I can fill, a nook. Safe, close, known and familiar.
          While a lot of the women I know dream about things like achieving gender equality, ending poverty, opening businesses, even things as banal (but classic) as being in famous rock bands, or planning their weddings, I fantasize about my future house. It isn't all I think about or hope to achieve, of course, but it's been lately occupying a lot of my mental downtime. Hardwood floors, white cotton curtains, an indoor tree strung with Christmas lights acting as a floor lamp, a wood-burning fireplace ... blankets and pillows in bright colors strewn about everywhere, photos of (and taken by) friends and family in simple wooden frames, books everywhere ... a light and open kitchen, uncooked pasta in jars, a turtle Chia Pet growing herbs on the windowsill, an old wooden table for elaborate meals or cups of coffee or fondue, fresh cut flowers in an old glass bottle ... a guest bedroom themed around a solar-system clock I found, kitschy and odd and mismatched ...

          Yes, I know; we've already established that I'm a loser.

          Maybe it's stupid to focus so much on something that only exists, so far, on the interior of my head. Well, there's no "maybe" about it. It is.
          But a home is important. And, believe me, I know that home is more than the physical trappings, more than the walls and floors and rugs and light switches. But maybe it's the starting point. I want to have somewhere, a physical space where I can start building memories. An anchor. The foundation.
          Maybe it's a reaction to the collegiate "homelessness." You don't really belong anywhere, and all your homes are only temporary, constantly shuffling around, packing up and moving out - they're just untils. Here until the end of break. Here until next year. Until. I want to be done with untils.
          Even though it still terrifies me, even though I still have a lot to learn, even though I'm not prepared for it, though I'll probably be eaten alive by it ... I think I'm ready for life to start.

          Maybe.