Outcast in Exurbia

Had a cup of tea the other day with a high school friend who recently moved back to exurban hell after living in Europe for a number of years. She seems pretty happy about it, God bless her.

“It’s so funny that we both wound up back here,” she said as we nibbled on scones at Panera. “I guess it’s a pretty good place to raise kids.”

“I still hate it here,” I found myself responding. Not exactly sure why it came out like that. In fact, I would say hate is a bit too strong. As is hell. Let’s just say I’m ambivalent and call it exurban heck. Usually things will be going along fairly smoothly and all of a sudden I’ll get a bee in my bonnet and start cursing this god forsaken cultural wasteland. My rants are generally directed at my poor husband who convinced me to move back here five years ago in a fog of love. He’s tethered to this place by a number of cords, so we’re unlikely to go anywhere anytime soon.

To set the scene for my out of town readership, the funny farm is nestled among the rolling hills on the outskirts of Lovetown, a sleepy little spot which boasts a post office, community center, library, elementary school, a few antique shops, two convenience stores, two pizza joints and two dental practices. The closest “big” town, which I’ll call Loserburg, is a sea of subdivisions and strip malls surrounding a picturesque, but not exactly bustling, downtown.. I was somewhat revolted recently to get a flier in the mail announcing the arrival of Bed Bath and Beyond in Loserburg. Now they really do have every big box store known to man. And just about every disgusting chain restaurant, too. Wait, I take that back—no Red Lobster yet.

I’m sure my dissatisfaction with my milieu has something to do with the absence of decent takeout and an art movie theater. But I think it’s mostly about my inability to develop meaningful social connections. In New York where I lived prior to decamping for the promised land, I had an interesting career, a satisfying social life and a network of friends with whom I shared a range of interests (including, but not limited to, drinking). My romantic life, however, was pretty much always a mess. Now I have a good marriage and a rewarding family life…and, well, not so many friends.

It would be oversimplifying to say that everybody around here is a redneck or a yuppie (although that’s sometimes what it feels like). The truth is, I’ve met some wonderful women in and around little old Lovetown. But the relationships, for the most part, don’t seem to go beyond the playground. And the friends I’ve managed to make, I hardly see.

Part of the problem, of course, is that a lot of us are geographically isolated out here. Getting together with a friend seems like such a big production. On my last visit to New York, I went to a birthday party for an old friend’s daughter and was envious to meet her posse of likeminded urban moms, most of them women from her neighborhood. I regularly find myself pining for my weird neighbors in Brooklyn. Or even wishing I lived in crummy subdivision--anything for a neighbor.

Now, after all that whining, I should note that we had a great time this weekend at a birthday party for a local friend’s mother to whom I’ve also gotten close. She’s a gorgeous and very energetic eighty, and I must say I’m grateful to know her...