I am thirty-one years old, employed, and happily married.  But I'm still paying rent.

Except for a two-year stint in grad school, I've been working since I graduated from college in 1998.  I could have easily bought a home several years ago.  Yet, something has kept me from that ultimate act of "settling down."

My dad worries about me, telling me the IRS is gonna gouge me and I'm "flushing (my) money down the toilet."  It's been impossible to explain to him that I don't want to commit to a home because I'm hoping to travel.  To many, this sounds irrational.  My younger brother and sister have homes; heck, they even have vegetable gardens.

It's not that I'm not domestic.  There are things about being a homeowner that would be terrific.  I could have a fenced-in yard and finally own the dog of my dreams. I love to cook, and I really like the idea of waking up to a kitchen large enough to have a coffee maker, mixer, spice rack, and toaster on the counter at the same time.  And to have two bathrooms, well, that's just crazy-talk!

But none of this appeals to me like the idea of hiking down to Phantom Ranch, having someone hold my ankles at the Blarney Stone, or eating a noodle bowl for breakfast.  People don't get it--I don't just want a week's vacation at the beach, I want to travel.  And the more I reflect, the more I realize that this isn't just a whim...

I lived in Cincinnati, Ohio for three years.  While there was a handful of things I liked about the place, it was also the least culturally diverse city I have ever experienced first-hand.  I remember crying on Cinco de Mayo one year because, after some web browsing and driving around, I couldn't find a Mexican restaurant that had Mexican people.  That night, after a soggy burrito at Don Pablo, I knew I had to go.

I called my friend John who had visited me from out-of-state the week before.  I explained to him that I felt suffocated in that city, that despite my job I felt that I needed to move.  He just laughed on the phone and said, "Well that shouldn't take very long.  You're already packed!"  And doggone it he was right.  In three years I had only unpacked my clothes, kitchen gear, books, and music.  The perimeter of my apartment was decorated with still-sealed cardboard boxes and I still crashed each night on a hard K-Mart futon.  Not the signs of someone settling down anytime soon.

Five years have passed since that night.  Since then I have returned to Europe, finally made it to Alaska, honeymooned in The Bahamas, and sped through various major American cities.  Oh, and I've moved twice more since then.

And the only difference now is that we keep the sealed boxes in the guest room.