BERICK: Design within reach

Friends since high school, there are a few girls with whom I’ve been scheming for almost a decade. My friends and I have talked about living together for years. It’s an escapism better than the beach, more diverting than a Friday night. Anything we are really disappointed with will be fixed in the future “when we live together.” The issues that will surely right themselves have followed no particular evolution. It is perhaps reprehensible, but some of our concerns &-&- the inclusion of attractive crockery in our lives &-&- have remained a constant through the years. From freshman year of high school to this, my senior year of college, we have depended on the alleviation of lovelorn seasons, student poverty and our parents’ suburban houses.

But in a terrifying twist, we are about to graduate and actually have the opportunity to live together. More challenging than finding a way into the work force will be testing out our vows.

One of my closest conspirators visited me this weekend and of course we played our favorite game. In the bakery we promised to live somewhere close to fresh bread. In attractive coffee shops and restaurants we discussed the necessity of eating well and finding a constant source of delicious caffeine.

But some of these aspirations have already come true. The reason why the need for a bakery bubbled into conversation is because I live a block away from a jewel-box of a patisserie already. We discussed good coffee shops and restaurants from vantage points in several appealing neighborhoods. Saturday night found my high school friend and I, along with a current roommate at a South End bar. Dressed up and perfumed we got to join the young, working population of Boston, consume jazz and couture cocktails. We then took a combination of cabs and trains around the city, running into friends and losing feeling in our frozen cheeks.

I write this in a convenient alcove of my apartment while my friend chats with roommates and college friends making an unnecessarily delicious dinner. Each of my roommates is preparing something from childhood but in our own kitchen. I’m indulging in a bit of a fantasy by writing a column, albeit for a school paper. Perhaps we have already succeeded in making some of the 20-something strides to which we’ve been looking forward. I lean my head around the kitchen door. When asked if they are nervous about our post-college move, they are predictably dismissive. Maybe they are right &- we do have a few things figured out.

I still worry, though. This is partly because I worry all the time. It’s a habit &-&- like smoking, which I don’t have the lungs to maintain &-&- or a hobby like knitting, which I do not have the feminine patience to pull off. I worry that without a future to aspire to, we will be dissatisfied no matter the neighborhood. Maybe fantasizing is a necessary exorcism. But if living beautifully in San Francisco and still feeling a little stir crazy, I could always look into yoga or acupuncture . . . or if necessary, an actual exorcism.