Let’s Microdose The Suburbs

I am, to my father’s horror and my bank account’s detriment, a city girl. I was voted Most Likely to Never Come Back as my senior superlative, and my classmates weren’t wrong; I was ready to get out of the suburbs of St. Louis, Missouri. For college applications, I set my sights on Chicago, Boston, or LA, and never looked back once I got a scholarship to a school in Los Angeles. My “element” is a rooftop bar, not a backyard baby shower.

But, my God, am I happy to come home to the suburbs, the land of infinite parking. I can’t wait to walk through a mall food court that’s bloated with caffeinated teens and chairs draped with puffer coats, or to browse Macy’s at my mom’s insistence because she has a 30% coupon she’s been saving for my arrival. I’m ready to see my high school best friend’s mom in the grocery aisle and hear about how their cat is getting surgery.

With that said, when I come home, it has to be a microdose. I can only take suburbia in small spurts. In spurts, it’s rejuvenating. It’s unmatched.

I turn into another person there. I use a drive-through to pick up coffee, I’m running errands in my family’s 20-year-old minivan like I’m a Mom On the Go. I’m picking up my siblings from ice hockey, a hobby I had to give up when I moved to LA because where do you even put hockey gear in an apartment?

Part of this is simply the space that suburbs have. I once remarked on the sheer number of ice cream brands and flavors that Schnucks carries; my mom replied, “That’s because we have the room for them.” She’s correct! And the same principle of space carries over into so much of what makes the suburbs good.

People have the storage space for really impressive holiday decorations in their attics and basements and garages. One girl from my high school changes her home decor each season! Including throw pillows! Meanwhile, I kept my sweatshirts in a suitcase under my bed in my last apartment, and one of my Los Angeles friends keeps a box of mementos in the trunk of her car — because that’s the only place she has.

In the suburbs, those same storage spaces make for wonderful hangout spots with very low risk of noise complaints. Watching a movie with a bottle of wine in someone’s basement? Amazing. A choice of couches (plural)? Magnificent. My mom and stepdad can watch a sad, weird French movie upstairs while I’m sprawled out on a basement couch that wouldn’t fit in most New York apartments, catching up on Selling Sunset with a drink I grabbed from the separate beverage fridge in the garage.

“It’s difficult to match the woozy high of a suburban mall at Christmastime.”

The suburbs are designed for this kind of ease. The biggest part of this? Car culture, baby! To paraphrase the best tweet of all time, sometimes it’s nice to get in your car, drive 93 miles per hour, blast loud music, and then hit a curb in the Target parking lot. (JK, do not break the law.) My parents both go to the grocery store every single day, which they can do because it’s a five-minute drive to a place with free (non-parallel) parking. Occasionally they’ll give me specific instructions on which routes to use to “avoid mall traffic.” Traffic? You call that traffic? Babe! That’s seven cars!

In so many ways, the suburbs are simpler than cities. Most of the people I know have salaried jobs that are from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., after which they come home, walk their dog, have some dinner, and watch a show. No one is scrambling to find parking for a friend’s 11 p.m. Wednesday night comedy show or waiting up at midnight for dinner reservations to open up for a new Indian/Italian fusion sports bar (Pijja Palace was worth it). In the suburbs, you’re probably not far from a Cheesecake Factory and its magical warm brown bread. I like a chain restaurant from time to time; I don’t always want to be jockeying to prove my elevated taste.

And not to imply that cities lack community — I’m still friends with someone who lived next door at my last apartment — but as my friend Alexandra, who moved from the deep suburbs of LA to… actual LA, put it, “When I’m home in the suburbs I’m reminded of how much the people around my family seem to genuinely care about them. My parents know their neighbors and are involved in their lives, and their neighbors are involved back. Plus, all of my parents’ friends live near them, and there’s something undeniably cozy about having people popping in the door at a moment’s notice.”

Being in the suburbs is about being comfortable, and I love comfort.

However, barring catastrophe, I’m not moving back. Yes, cities are inconvenient at times, as anyone who’s ever purchased a mattress for a sixth-floor walk-up will tell you. But they’re also invigorating, idiosyncratic, and inspiring (and in many ways more eco-friendly). They’re full of people you don’t know, which presents freedom in the form of anonymity.

I like that most of my friends around me are making some kind of art. Sure, we sometimes have to engage with it in gross capitalistic ways to pay rent, but we’re striving. We’re taking risks.

But sometimes existing in that constant state of striving wears you down. So when I want things to feel a little easier, a little more “magical,” I return to the suburbs for a quick hit of free parking and tiny boutiques that sell monogrammed stemless wine glasses. I want the relaxation, the focus on what really matters, which is slowing down. I want to take the edge off. And fortunately, it’s difficult to match the woozy high of a suburban mall at Christmastime.