Suburb-atory

Suburbatory

When I was eight years old, my father almost got us killed in New York City. 

Long story short, we were going to visit a great-aunt in Hell’s Kitchen (the name itself should have been a clue) and my father pulled our red station wagon into a parking spot that a “local” man had apparently already cherry-picked for himself.  No big deal, except that upon my dad’s refusal to move, the guy returned to his car, grabbed a black, metallic object, and walked back toward us with an ominous look in his eye.  We quickly found another parking spot.

We escaped unscathed except for the indelible message imprinted in my mind: anyone living in New York City was asking for trouble.  So when I landed in New York City to pursue a graduate degree in teaching, I couldn’t imagine that I’d stay there for more than a decade.  

But I fell in love.

And like the beginning of most romances, it was whirlwind and passionate.  I loved the all-night diners and coffee shops; the street fairs on the weekends and The Strand bookstore.  I found quaint restaurants and shopped at charming boutiques. (Needless to say, my dwindling bank account didn’t feel the love.)  After my stint at NYU, I moved uptown to Normandie Court--practically a rite of passage-- and then to a rental on the Upper West Side, just steps away from Zabar’s and H&H Bagels (my waistline didn’t feel the love either.)  I was dating, even had a semi-serious relationship here and there, but my real significant other was the city.  I was in my 20’s and I was having a blast.

As 30 loomed over me, I began to wonder if I was in the right relationship.   Many of my friends were getting married and starting families, and several had even gone so far as to flee to the suburbs where they would have backyards and wide hallways in which their offspring could frolic.

I started to feel the pressure of no boyfriend, and of course, that internal ticking timepiece.  I was tired of living in apartments shared by a revolving door of roommates in cramped quarters.  I felt as though I was waiting for my real life to start, the part when I got married and bought a home with my husband and galloped off into the sunset (or at least to Westchester.)   I was afraid that buying an apartment--to live in alone--would be admitting defeat. 

But the city was relentless in its hold over me, and I caved.  I found commitment on the corner of 75th and 2^nd, in the form of an L-shaped studio.   The deal was closed on September 13, 2001. The smell of smoke from the devastated Twin Towers still saturated the air as I walked into my lawyer’s office to sign the papers that wed me to New York City.

Our affair continued for six more years, as I settled into the routines that characterize most relationships. I met friends for brunch on the weekends at places designed to look like Vermont bed and breakfasts and ran races in Central Park with the New York Road Runners Club on Sunday mornings.  As always, I was searching for someone permanent to brunch and run with, but overall, I felt proud of the life I had made for myself.  

Then, Jeff came along. At first, we three got along beautifully.  He loved the city as much as I did.  On the weekends that he didn’t have his three kids (see Blog Post #2), we stayed at my studio.  But as we became closer, it became clear that I would have to choose between my sweet new boyfriend (plus three) or my dynamic old flame.  I’d read enough chick-lit to know not to move backwards.

So, somewhat bittersweetly, we relocated to a 3-bedroom apartment in New Jersey for almost two years.  It was not an easy adjustment, and I found myself in my car a lot, making the trip over the George Washington Bridge four or five nights a week.  I played in my weekly tennis league, went to my book club, and chaired philanthropic committee meetings.  Jeff thought I was out of my mind, but I reasoned that I was really only a 20 minute drive from the city (minus time spent looking for parking.) 

Shortly after Emmet was born, we moved to a lovely house in Connecticut, within walking distance of a playground, a bakery, and the grocery store, but over 45 minutes away from Manhattan. My lack of proximity to the city made me anxious: would I really be able to maintain my strong ties to the city as the miles between us grew? Could this be the end of our fourteen-year fling?  I was clearly in denial about my new status as a suburbanite.  I fell into a kind of suburban purgatory--suburbatory?--in which I was caught between my two worlds.  

At the same time, I was eager to claim a place in my new community. We joined a synagogue and signed Emmet up for music class and swim class.  When we went to the Purim carnival at the JCC, I watched at how comfortably the families intermingled with each other--laughing, chasing after their toddlers, sitting at long tables together to eat pizza and hamantashen.  In Manhattan, that would've been me.  

As I looked on at this scene--somewhat wistfully--Emmet squirmed out of my lap where we had been making tambourines out of paper plates and beans.  As I chased him through the crowd, I bumped into one of my new neighbors, and then ran into a girl I went to camp with, and then stopped to chat with an old college friend who had recently moved to the area. (Oh, and Jeff had reclaimed Emmet.)  By the time we left the JCC, we had scheduled one playdate and one night out for grown ups.

I think the city would be happy to see me moving on.