The box is telling me to jump right in. Not that box (dirty, dirty girl)…the cookie-cutter, culturally-processed box that tells me “You are too old for that.” The box that puts expectations on me that I should be married with kids by now, or at least clicking my red vintage heels down the yellow-brick road. 

I rent, I’m just shy of 30 years, and I think the most expensive thing I own might be a laptop (if I actually owned one). I save and I put money into a 401K. I donate and volunteer. I have a job. I’m doing the things I _should be_ doing. And now, its about the right time to buy a house. Yeah yeah I know, it’s also because the market is excellent for it. But my inner monologue is telling me to rebel. For one reason: travel (bitches). And my question is why should I sacrifice that? Can I do both?

Would you have preferred if I said mold instead of box? Fine! My dilmena is, should I fit into this cube-shaped mold to buy a house because its the practical thing to do for the rest of my life? Or can I please travel before the box takes over?

Cut to scene of a cardboard box with some crazy f-ed up teeth biting at my ankles. (I’d like to think my box is bedazzled)

And damnit, just because I’m not married doesn’t mean I can’t bring a +1 to your wedding.