Speculative Suburban Living

Suburbia is giving me the worst agita. Even though it is nice.
Whenever I leave New York I spend a lot of time thinking about how different my life would be if I didn't live in New York (and hadn't grown up in New York). Not that I want to live in New York forever—anyone who knows me has heard about my house-and-garden-in-a-small-English-university-town pipe dream—but thinking too much about not living in New York can be really jarring.

Say, for example, if I lived in Palo Alto—which is where I've been all week, somewhere in between Palo Alto and Mountain View, commuting to the San Carlos office via (awesome) Porsche. If I lived in Palo Alto, I'd have to drive, which means I'd have to own a car, which means I'd need to live somewhere, probably a house with a garage, where I could park it. That's a terrifying thought, living in a house by myself.

Compound that fear of living in large spaces alone with the fact that it's, well, really suburban out here and there's not all that much to do in the evenings and on the weekends—at least, not when you're a single person. Almost everyone my age-ish I know here is married with kids or coupled off with pets. So, I guess, if I lived in Palo Alto, I might be married with kids living in a house with a garage by now.

That's usually the point in this train of thought where I have to stop thinking about not living in New York because my mind has gone all wonkly.