Home sweet home. Not. Photo gilched from That Canadian Grrl

Mr. Gnome and I just purchased our first home.

It’s beautiful, just what we wanted: a great deal on a well-built house in a nice neighborhood. (Bonus: A gorgeous view of the Blue Ridge mountains.)

Somehow, though, as I sat in the title company’s conference room closing on the house, dog leash in one hand, pen-on-deed in another, I felt like I was cheating on my wanderlust.

Despite the fact that we’ll save money month-to-month (even excluding the 8k, first-time homebuyer kickback and projected return on investment), it made my inner backpacker widen her eyes in alarm and lament scream, “Now you’ll never travel again!”

Of course, this is ridiculous.

Even worse than ridiculous, it’s just my fear-hungry inner lizard that worries about basic needs and comforts.

But still, why does being a travel junkie and a home-owner have to feel mutually exclusive? It’s similar to the conversation about what it means to be a traveler.  Some people quit their jobs to travel, some work/study abroad, some work at home and travel when they can.

In my opinion, it’s all good.

I sometimes have the image in my head of being some wanderer-hippie chick super long hair, a penchant for cheap hostels, and a desire to live as meagerly as possible with all of my possessions squished in a backpack.

But, I know my most authentic self is a little different.

I’m the gal who loves lazily wandering around the world, sharing beers with new friends and old, catching good tunes, playing piano for hours at a time, writing about the world and change, volunteering…and is secretly thrilled to pick out paint colors and hunt for cheap mid-century furniture.

Shhhh.

I have no intention to stop traveling. In fact, I know I won’t stop traveling.

As cliche as it may be, I’ve just learned over the years it’s about what makes you happy. Or “whatever works” as Larry David’s misanthropic character grunts in Woody Allen’s latest film.

I may not be the *cool* traveler, but here I am: a travel-obsessed chick composing songs for the pitbull sitting next to her Eames-era coffee table.

What do you think?

Have any of you felt the adventurer/abode dilemma?