The pursuit of what exactly?

I am a homebody. Even after the past year or two or a half (I’ve lost track), I still opt-in to staying in when the night’s a bit too cold or my lower back starts feeling the effects of banana-backing all day. Yet, I rarely get a chance to be a homebody. Somehow, I always find myself on the way to somewhere instead of a familiar couch.

And I don’t just mean in-an-uber-on-my-way-to-the-bar somewhere. I mean every few months, I take out a few suitcases and start my packing routine, which has been foul-proofed to last me from three days to three months. In the past six months, I moved into my college apartment, moved out, back into my home-home, moved out, into my friends spare-bedroom (less dramatic than you think, just a change of WFH scenery), and just in a few weeks, I’m planning to move again.

I’m not sure why I do it. Moving sucks. I don’t have a go-to bank. I haven’t driven without a GPS in forever, and every boy I meet comes with a warning of “don’t fall in love you won’t be here for long.”

It’s a fear of settling down, I think. Like being scared to commit to a city, because what if it isn’t the place I’m meant to spend my 20’s in? What if I get stuck and never get to be a ski instructor in Colorado or a failed screenwriter in New York? Our 20’s are meant to be monumental, to be the right time to do the wrong things — to do all the things.

I can’t keep drifting. Eventually, I’ll need to commit to one of those over-priced, overweight vacuum cleaners for an apartment that makes me sign some scam-y lease. But I’m just not ready.

When I’m 30, I’ll get the dog and I’ll furnish the apartment in a way that satisfies both my mother and my husband. For now, at 21, I’m not really in the pursuit of anything and anywhere. And I think that’s okay.

P.S. Does this mean I’m a whole nine years away from my Creuset pot collection?