Choices:

A lavish apartment, scarlet and silver, perfume and cigarette smoke, red wine and champagne, and art on the walls too abstract for anyone to understand, but expensive enough to give license to pretend.
A job to do, people to boss from behind a mahogany desk, expensive fingernails to tap impatiently in a Barney’s blouse and next season’s Pradas.
A boyfriend, who’s handsome enough, rich enough, detached enough, to bring to an opera or a gallery, but never to take home to Mom and Dad.

Owning a small split-level in a suburb; they say it’s the place to be raising the two kids, one boy, one girl, who are running around the kept, green lawn being airplanes.
Doing no job but the biggest job there ever was: driving the kids to school, to soccer games, to Jimmy’s house, baking birthday cakes and Christmas cookies, wiping up blood and tears and disappointments.
Having a husband who’s a hero, fighting fires in big buildings in the city, giving the marriage strange hours no one could dream of keeping, but it’s alright so long as he’s coming home.

Make a home where it can be made; tonight it’s a dreary bus stop in Leeds that smells like gasoline, tomorrow it may be the Hilton in Rio de Janeiro.
Get a job when money’s short; be a barmaid in Hannover or a farmhand in las Pampas, do odd jobs at a B&B in Wicklow for a bed and fresh strawberries in the morning.
Keep no boyfriend, no husband, fall in love in Egypt, but it cannot be worked out because there can be no ties to anything save the whole world.