I'm a Small Fish Now

Oh, the pleasantries of city living, my fine fellows!

I, the ragamuffin, have left behind the stars in the sky and the chickens in the coops.  No longer can I run to my car in my underwear or hear the crickets outside my window.  The armies of spiders and bugs are no more!  Directions to my home are now devoid of cattle guards and railroad tracks.

My life is one you've heard of.  Living in the suburbs, off of a busy street, in a tan condo that looks just like the neighbor's.  I have green grass in the front, but no yard of my own.  I worry about unlocked doors and strangers with unseemly intentions.  It doesn't get dark at night and the stars are on vacation.  Dogs bark, car alarms sound, music pulsates, and my neighbor sings along with the radio.  

What is it that we like about the city?  The restaurants are overpriced, the grocery store is nothing new, and the faces are never familiar.  There is a Walgreens and a Taco Bell on every corner, both lacking any sort of character.  

I sometimes wish that I either lived in a small town again, like the one from my childhood, or in a big city with lots of history, like NYC or DC.  Even a newer city with a little more excitement (and the beach!), like LA, seems to have more to offer.  It's probably a case of "the grass is greener," but I can't help feeling like I live in a hot, overly-populated, bland, brown, big-box city.

Sometimes I yearn for that small town again, where my parents live only a stone's throw away.  I guess that's what happens when you grow up, though.  The old things don't seem as bad as you once thought they were.

I want to give Clara more than a tiny backyard and a big street, though.  I want her to build forts, collect rocks, run with the dogs, catch lizards, and sleep under the stars like I did.  I want her to know kids from kindergarten to 12th grade, to recognize people when she goes out to eat.

But maybe I'm biased.