The Burbs

I wonder why it is that I'm not more pissed off about living in The Burbs. When I mention to people, strangers at the gym, checkout folk at the Trader Joe's, that I've just moved here from NYC, they gasp, and exclaim, "Wow, that's culture shock." And with their mouths practically salivating, they ask, "How do you like...San Mateo??!?" And then they seem to lean back and wait for me to go on some diatribe about how dull this all is, or how much I miss Manhattan. I just can't get it up to satisfy them. I usually respond, "I'm not sure I know where I am yet". If they know my situation, they nod, knowingly and empathetically. If not, they look eager to hear the back-story. Sorry, friend, not today.

So why aren't I more pissed off? Could it be I am actually a closet burbie girl? That's Bruno's theory. As a gal who grew up living in the suburbs while attending high school in a big city, I'm familiar with all the jokes: What's the difference between a burbie girl and the trash? The trash gets taken out once a week. What's the difference between a burbie girl and a calendar? A calendar has dates. Could it be that I've finally come full circle and reached a moment in my life when I don't mind having a few fewer options, a little less calling to me. That right now I appreciate a place that doesn't demand that I have six careers and be part of two bookclubs at a minimum.

Let me tell you my big activity for the day: trying to fool my GPS. I am perpetually lost (metaphorically and physically, but right now let's stick to the physical), and so my Mom and Dad chipped in to get me a GPS. So I figure now I've got to leave the house a little. Today, I decide to take the thing out for a spin to the Walgreens and the bank (free-lancer: I have to deposit checks!). I've successfully made it to the Walgreens and now I'm asking it to take me to the nearest bank. And I decide, while I'm still safely within the realm of streets I kinda know, to see how lost this thing will let me get. It tells me to get in the right lane and prepare to turn right (how does one really prepare to turn right? Get one's moral compass in order?) And I, in a fit of brazenness, decide to turn left instead. It repeats it's previous command, and mid-sentence interrupts itself to condescend: recalculating. It sounds like it's annoyed with me, but I don't care. I take another wrong turn and then another. My mechanical friend looks down her computerized nose at me and sniffs: recalculating, recalculating, please proceed to highlighted route. I will not. I have been rudely thrust from my highlighted route, and I won't let some dashboard hussy pressure me into getting back on it now. Not until I'm good and ready, you hear me.

In the meanwhile, I'm driving up and down hills, past trees heavy with persimmons, through falling leaves, on streets with S L O W written across them in large letters. It's a nice difference, a nice reminder.

And after a bit, I decide I am in fact ready to rejoin the highlighted route. I still, after all, want to get to my destination. I let my mechanized friend guide me back onto the path (she sounds much more relaxed now that I'm following her lead), and moments later, I arrive.