Oh, Unfabulous Me

My friends are moving to New York in droves. Or they are returning from backpacking all over Mexico to go herd sheep on Navaho reservations. Or they've become Lindsay Lohan thin living like vagabonds in Paris. I just spent a weekend pulling weeds and baking bread. Does it make me hopelessly unfabulous to be excited about the washer and dryer my boyfriend's parent bought us yesterday? Because I am pretty excited, like, I've told most everyone I've spoken to today.

I feel like I am supposed to want a life less ordinary. One where I jaunt off to Tahiti on a whim or have already spent the better part of a year healing the sick or building drainage ditches; or even a life where I can think of one goddamn different thing to do on a Saturday night.

See though, I am already quite happy. I like adventure and surprises and traveling to places I don't know. But I love going home again. I love making breakfast in my underwear and reading in bed, I love the way that - when we get it just right - I fit perfectly into the space between my boyfriend's arm and chest.

I probably got this from my parents, that home is a place that I want to be. It's where I find warmth and richness and enough laughter to give you balder control issues. But, I still find myself slightly ashamed that I haven't yet traveled the country or saved some part of the world or done something crazy enough to make this blog more interesting. But adventure has never been any good for me when it isn't possible to celebrate its conclusion with a warm shower and something baked.

The thing is, like just about every other 24 year old I know, I have no clue what I want to do with my life. And we are all just grasping and ideas or theories or dreams. We hang our hats on whatever longing we can. I want to make a difference and then I want to go home.