She finally says “suburban rage”

I try. Really I do.
I was a part of the decision to reroute this family’s road into the suburban abyss, and I do my best to own it and “bloom where I’m planted” (Damn my friend just a tiny bit for “planting” that idea in my mind. Just a little bit, though.)
But I have moments where I just. can. not. do. it.
One of moments thrust itself upon me today and I was suddenly and fiercely overwhelmed.
The whole situation was triggered by this innocent article.
A Trader Joes being erected in our old hood. So close to the Tree House I could have spit on it (well, it would have taken a bit of wind, but stay with me here, I am weaving a tale,) from my beloved former balcony.
Interesting snippet of info – I honestly don’t really give a deuce about TJs. As a born and bred Colorado Native who didn’t depart for college or work (or at all – HELLO – pretty here, not leaving,) I haven’t experienced first hand the joy of Mr. Joe. (Do we think TJs is a boy? Since I personify EVERYTHING, I feel like TJs is a boy. Holy crap do I digress.) So it isn’t like I was all “hallelujah, we are saved, I can get all of the products I have been woefully doing without since I transplanted my super cool self to this square state so many moons ago!” or something. Nuh Uh. I’m firmly in the “I guess I’d check it out eventually if it was near me,” camp about the Trader Joes.
Which is why the insane fire I felt burning up from my belly – far greater than anything that could have been caused by the leftover food truck chorizo and onion quesadilla I had for breakfast – surprised me more than anyone. It consumed me. I was just departing the office to meet the contractor at The Casa, which is probably a good thing, because I was already damning every single thing I could think of to hell as I stomped out the door and to my car. The giant, free-of-charge parking lot at the office building, the clean, wide streets, The Mr, and The Casa, and the contractor, and the office, and every strip mall I passed as I drove home in a cloud of tears and pent up suburban rage. Upstairs I damned the giant walk in closet I sold my urban soul for, the king sized bed and the behemoth soaking tub in the master for being stupidly and needlessly suburbanly big….
This was my version of homesick, I guess. Marooned far from walking distance away from the new TJs that I kind of care not about, I railed and I raged and I cried; and I tried to keep my volume low enough to hide my crazy from the contractor two stories below.
BUT two stories below shouldn’t even be my house!! FFS, less than two years ago 3 different stories meant three different condos in my world. What in the world do we need 3000 square feet of room for. That is 1000 square feet per family member!!! (Clearly I am still in the thick of the latest attack. Pardon.)
I actually declined an invitation to attend a special event at a restaurant in the old neighborhood, because I knew it would cause a similar reaction. It feels like I cut a piece of myself off, and going back to visit just renews the reminder that it is gone from me.
I am the FIRST person to confess that I know my particular brand of hysterics over this issue occasionally boarders on the “falling out on the divan while someone wafts smelling salts under my nose” variety that has long ago gone from fashion. As I said – I own part of the decision and attacks are few and far between. (Clearly the Ativan is kicking in now.)
It’s fine.
Being outside the comfort zone is part of the point.
I’m fine.

That TJ’s is going to make traffic a nightmare, we got out just in time! (Not even close to talking myself into that one.. sounded good though, eh?)

Just the same, I am not on speaking terms with the closet or the tub for at least a week. So there.