the brutality of city living

When we took Zelda for her Family Walk on Saturday morning, it was freezing cold. York Ave is the equivalent of Old Cold Beav, our affectionate term for the PSU East Halls parking lot that was swept by wind tunnels that made the Arctic tundra seem mild. So as we were fighting similar winds on York and 87th, wondering why we choose to torture ourselves with brutal city living, Tim drew a picture that will forever stay in my mind....waking up on Saturday mornings, letting the dog outside to run across those 23 acres carefree and wild, while we watch from inside, by the fire, reading the paper with our steaming mugs of coffee that we didn't pay $5 for at Starbucks. The dream suddenly made sense to me. I might officially, finally, really want out. Holy shit, then I am paralyzed by fear. The fear of turning into a suburban fatty who thinks Target is high fashion. (Yes, I own a Target dress but you're allowed to buy from Target when you live in the city in a snobby, ironic way. It's like a Fuck You to Barney's.) Will I live to discover new recipes for chicken? Will I buy a minivan because it's just so much easier to lug all the kid's uniforms and musical instruments in? Will I start making Rice Krispy Treats for the bake sale and know the crossing guard's name? Will I think I'm still "tapped in" by taking classes at the local yoga studio and telling them that I studied at Om in Union Square for years? Will I be sporting the same chic haircut in 10 years when it's no longer chic like those women on Real Housewives? Oh my God, will I start tanning?

Jesus...

Which is worse, trying really hard in suburban mediocrity or the daily torture of city life?