Playing House

I spent last night at my friend’s apartment to protect her from scary noises and axe murderers while her roommate was out of town. As I enjoyed the grand tour of their tiny home, I cooed over the table and the chairs and the flowers and the stove. There is something so exciting about claiming your own domestic space and playing house. Perhaps it’s because college students are swamped with paper writing and other homework that makes washing dishes in your own little sink with your own bottle of soap a delightful activity.

But I suspect some part of it moves beyond a simple excuse to break from school. A couple of weekends back, some dear friends of mine hosted an open house to share the improvements they’ve made to their very first home. There too, it was squealing (and whatever the masculine equivalent of that happens to be) over matching dishes and picture frames and new plants for the garden. There seems an odd fascination which these objects can hold in a new home when in an old one, they become items of drudgery and chores.

Elizabeth and Jane Bennet probably never washed their own dishes, but I bet the novelty of claiming their very own domestic domain also held some charm and fascination. I think the excitement must stem from being in charge of your own little corner of the world. As the sole proprietor and planner of your very first establishment, you pass an invisible threshold into adulthood and responsibility. And for a season of time, it might feel like playing house in your Playschool kitchen with its plastic fruit and wooden dishes—pretending to be a grown-up.