I have never ever ever thought of myself as a suburban woman. Suburban women pull their hair back in bouncy pony tails to attend yoga class while their daughters are in ballet. I’ve always thought of myself as not that. I don’t know what I thought I was, but it wasn’t that. At all.
So here we are in St. Louis and while I live only blocks from countless oriental markets and restaurants, two Jewish cemeteries, an authentic Mexican tortilleria and grocery, something called the “Blue Nile” and a place called “Hong Kong Beauty Salon,” I don’t have a Hobby Lobby, Joanne’s Fabrics or Barnes and Noble within a ten mile drive from my house.
A few weeks ago there was a brand spanking new WalMart opened only 6 miles from our apartment and yesterday I stopped by to pick up some diapers, shampoo and the makings for banana pudding (no reason. I just REALLY WANTED SOME.) I walked through the doors of a Wal Mart Super Center for the first time since I left Georgia and there was a sense of rightness in the universe. It really surprised me that I felt a sense of peace from shopping at one of the most generic stores in the country. What is wrong with me?
I’ve lived my whole life in the suburbs is what. I’ve always thought of myself as something more interesting, or more something than suburbia, but I’m a suburban gal. I really enjoy my new neighborhood, and I love that when I’m in our local Aldi there is always at least four ethnic groups represented. But just like worn jeans are more comfortable than new ones, sometimes a girl needs to slip into something comfortable, like Wal Mart. I guess I’m just mainstream, vanilla and big box suburban at heart. Weird.