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My growing interest with the domestic sphere isn't a mere interest; it's become an obsession, one, at that, contrary to the typical opinions of my age group, a group which at this moment is busy eating cold ramen, vaccuuming laundry money from under the futon, and hunting for cheap efficiencies. Ambitious, that 18-34 demographic.

Granted, some people in this demographic are buying cell phone plans to keep in touch with their parents, and some people are shopping for a new set of oven mitts, and some people are just as worried about Kitchenaid products and flannel sheets as I am. But we are the minority. Most people are just trying to get a roof over their heads, and here we are--here I am--wondering what type of ceiling fan fixture I should put beneath said roof. "Home" isn't just where you hang your hat, as my father keeps reminding me. It's a rather comfortable state of mind, fed by my desire to furnish a dwelling I don't have and my desire to keep taking up space in the dwelling I'm supposed to be leaving.

So I'm fascinated by domestic products--so what? Lots of people are. But I tend to keep an eye out for products I simply don't need at this point in my life�curtains, coasters, food processors�pining away for objects I would cherish and use, if only it were five years later and I had my own house and salary. And I've been acquiring things I don't have the space to hold; I don't even have a kitchen right now, but I do have a springform pan, a Bundt pan, and a cooling rack. This is even more impractical when I have to move twice a year between my varied campus abodes and my parents' house.

To be honest, it feels like I'm trying to recreate the trappings of my family's home without having anywhere to recreate it. When I buy, say, a set of plates for my mother at Christmas, part of my brain thinks I'm buying them for myself, to set on my hypothetical breakfast table where I will serve hypothetical pancakes made on my hypothetical griddle heated on my hypothetical stovetop.

Of course, I will never have a hypothetical, or real, stovetop unless I can convince myself to move out in the first place. When everyone else was a freshman in college and feeling homesick, I was thinking I might never go home again. And as all the homesick freshmen turned into independent seniors, I, well, started feeling homesick. Really homesick. Chalk it up to the future uncertainties I am about to face with graduation, or the general instability of college life. Whatever the reason, I can't wait to go home, to my parents' home, and curl up in my parents' down comforter drinking my parents' tea.

It's not supposed to be like this!

I'm supposed to be on the verge of becoming a sophisticated, independent young woman! I'm supposed to be cultivating my connections and winning fabulous interviews in New York City! I'm supposed to be moving out, and all I want is to move back in.

Sigh.

Well, you know what? When the time comes, the boxes will be packed, the apartment will be chosen, and I will be on my way to buying curtains, coasters, and a food processor.