ALL MY FRIENDS HAVE A HOUSE

(and a child, dog or a station wagon)

“No, no, nooo.” And she shouted from yes-yes-yes, because she was pregnant. The maintenance-free apartment was exchanged for a house with a garden and carport, the cute little four-wheeler became a larger model and they were already married by the way. Now I’m pretending this was all wrapped up in a weekend, but of course they took a bit more time for it. Anyway, it was already about nine months before the little one was on the way.

Now I’ve had a grown-up job for a while (even though it always seems like one big party), but the marriage didn’t happen and I just treated myself to a flashy, small city car. So what’s going on? My friends are nesting like crazy. Big time. Even the cheerful expat in the Arab Emirates started buying. Child one with number two on the way. The small, trendy car makes way for a station wagon with options. Because you can just pop out ten seats for the next generation, which is apparently extremely handy. There’s discussion about the turning circle of the stroller and how many years in advance you need to register the fetus for daycare. And me, us? Have. No. Idea.

Should I think about my pension? Should I take a caravan to France? Is it still permissible for me to rent? How much could I actually get as a mortgage? Before you know it, you’re making a balance plan that your spending pattern is like the diapers also have to go in the big groceries. It makes me feel somewhat adolescent. My boyfriend suddenly wanted to dance at Jansen again last night (it used to be so wrong that it was right). I’m doing a stop-cooking and at this moment I’m considering frisbeeing all my mail unopened into a drawer (just kidding, I was already doing that anyway). We’re opening a bottle of wine on Monday. That kind of fun.

And now I wonder if I’m the only one. The thirty-something who just doesn’t want to get serious. Her shit is just a bit less structured together than the rest. And finds that particularly pleasant or nice. Because that’s secretly just how it is. I find it a relief that I can cancel my rent tomorrow, my small but fine car fits in every parking space, I (in theory) can dance at Jansen, not think about life after my sixty-seventh or slowly being strangled by a mortgage. Admit it, that doesn’t sound unpleasant, does it?

Oh, you know what it is? For my house-buying friends, I’m probably the textbook example of how they never want it again, back to square one, so why am I getting worked up again? Someone has to be of the wayward, uncharted kind and I am it with all, all, ALL love. And thank god they are the coolest settled friends on earth.