Suburban Blues (and Browns and Greys)

Yesterday I found myself at the checkout line at the grocery store about to cry.

Because I had forgotten my reusable bag. Because the lady put one item in each plastic bag even though I told her it could fit more. Because my sister kept telling me, you are such a freak, it is not a big deal. All you have to do is worry about yourself.

I overreact. It wasn't about the plastic bags. But I've spent more time in a car in the past three days than I do in a month in Gainesville. I've been forced to carry a cell phone when I bike ride because my parents worry (and worry). I've wandered Target like a zombie from the sensory overload. And I can't go anywhere on foot because of US 19.

"I hate the suburbs," I told my sister as we wheeled out the cart to the car. She told me to move to NYC.

I know that freedom is in the mind, and not just in the caves and the hills. But it seems hard to find peace in the aisles of a super Wal-Mart. Coming back home just reminds me that my future must be different. That it isn't crazy of me to look for a job that will drop-kick strip malls and hubcap-sized hamburgers out of my daily routine.

Epilogue:

At the end of the day I bike a few miles, and come back and float in my pool while my dad plays Peter Gabriel and grills chicken. My dog sits on the brick and watches me lazily backstroke. And then we all set the dinner table together and eat and clean up and digest on our living room couches as the last track comes to an end.