Weekend in the 'burbs
Sarah's old friend, her husband and their little boy recently moved from Manhattan to a nice house in the suburbs, across the street from a soccer field and down the block from the Metro North station. We went up there on Sunday, sat in the lawn, watched the kids roll around, ate juicy meat from their new, industrial-sized grill, and listened to old U2 albums. It was pleasant, and it was tranquil, and it depressed the shit out of me. Why?
These people are an hour commute from the City. Their house is five minutes from a great bike path that ultimately leads all the way up to Albany. The schools are among the best in the country. There's a Trader Joe's five minutes away if you're into cheap, good produce (which I am), and word has it that this suburb is a fairly liberal community. (As long as you can afford those $800k+ homes, they don't care what your race, religion or sexual preference is.).
When Sarah and I were talking about it that night, we both said we didn't want to grow old in a suburb. Then, we discussed other options - mid-sized cities and smaller towns that dot the East Coast. They all sounded compelling, but when you come right down to it, as Sarah eventually pointed out, it's growing old period that freaks me out. Where it happens is almost... almost immaterial.
Monday with Asher
Sarah worked yesterday, and I got to spend a rare, entire day with Asher. It was, in a word, wonderful. We laughed, and we played with toys together. When I put on the Beatles and sang, he cooed along with me, grinning and staring at me wide-eyed. When he was tired, he rubbed his eyes, and went down for naps without complaint. He gobbled up his rice cereal, and took great delight in smearing it all over his face and hair. When he was upset, I always knew exactly what to do. And when he was happy, it was because I made him that way. I felt like a Dad. A good one.
Sarah's old friend, her husband and their little boy recently moved from Manhattan to a nice house in the suburbs, across the street from a soccer field and down the block from the Metro North station. We went up there on Sunday, sat in the lawn, watched the kids roll around, ate juicy meat from their new, industrial-sized grill, and listened to old U2 albums. It was pleasant, and it was tranquil, and it depressed the shit out of me. Why?
These people are an hour commute from the City. Their house is five minutes from a great bike path that ultimately leads all the way up to Albany. The schools are among the best in the country. There's a Trader Joe's five minutes away if you're into cheap, good produce (which I am), and word has it that this suburb is a fairly liberal community. (As long as you can afford those $800k+ homes, they don't care what your race, religion or sexual preference is.).
When Sarah and I were talking about it that night, we both said we didn't want to grow old in a suburb. Then, we discussed other options - mid-sized cities and smaller towns that dot the East Coast. They all sounded compelling, but when you come right down to it, as Sarah eventually pointed out, it's growing old period that freaks me out. Where it happens is almost... almost immaterial.
Monday with Asher
Sarah worked yesterday, and I got to spend a rare, entire day with Asher. It was, in a word, wonderful. We laughed, and we played with toys together. When I put on the Beatles and sang, he cooed along with me, grinning and staring at me wide-eyed. When he was tired, he rubbed his eyes, and went down for naps without complaint. He gobbled up his rice cereal, and took great delight in smearing it all over his face and hair. When he was upset, I always knew exactly what to do. And when he was happy, it was because I made him that way. I felt like a Dad. A good one.
posted by isaacjosephson at 7:09 AM
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