Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 167

You guys,

Sam wants to live on a farm. 

Three weeks ago we fantasized about a 5-million dollar home on the beach and watching sunsets over the ocean. Now we’re talking about 5-acres of land. And a chicken coop.

We currently live in the suburbs, in a house we bought nearly three years ago just before George was born. We love our house. We love our renovated backyard and our pool. 

We do not love the suburbs. 

We’re on top of our neighbors. When I open the curtain in my bedroom I see right into my neighbor's house, so I close the curtain, because if one day we made eye contact from inside each other’s houses I would die. 

Speaking of neighbors, they are very nice and I avoid them at all costs. Take a walk down the block to retrieve my mail? Nah, I’ll wait until I pick the kids up from daycare. 

Running into a neighbor means having a conversation about the weather, upcoming trips, or our kids. Which is fine sometimes but not all the time. I want to talk about struggles and growth and books and podcasts. 

Sam thinks this makes us weird. But I don’t feel like I’m weird. I find all the things I want out of a conversation with my online friends. When I hop on Zoom for a Write of Passage call, I know it’s safe to talk about my struggles and be vulnerable because that’s what writers do. But there’s no filter when I run into a neighbor. There’s no way for either party to know what topic is appropriate to broach. We’re all sticking to the surface because it’s safe. How many of my neighbors are super cool and I just don’t know it?

I blame the suburbs. There’s something about the 'keeping-up-with-the-jones' mentality that seems to permeate our neighborhood. From the women gossiping about our Christmas wreath still hanging on our front door in February, to the men swooning over who has the biggest boat on the block. 

I know you can’t see me right now but I just rolled my eyes so hard.

So Sam stalks Zillow and we find ourselves imagining our life elsewhere. It started with the beach, but we’re wary of rising sea levels, hurricane threats, and congestion during high season. We can always vacation at the beach. 

Sam has a recurring romantic idea of farm life, and I like to constantly keep him in check. Snakes? Bears? Taking care of that much land? ALONE IN THE WOODS? No thank you. I am a fearful person. Farm life might sound good on paper, but who are we kidding? We know nothing about living a rustic, outdoorsy kind of life. (Did I mention I hate bugs?)

The more I battle him, the more confident he seems to become. “It will be a learning experience!” he says with a twinkle (read: madness) in his eyes. 

We speak on the phone with our realtor to tell her our dream, eventually, five years from now. Land, five bedrooms, the biggest kitchen you’ve ever seen, tennis court, outdoor sauna, pool, a guest house, chickens (always chickens). But we don’t want to move yet. We’re happy where we are right now, we swear. We’re just looking! When we hang up the phone 30 minutes later, we realize we have no idea what we want. We just know that it’s not the suburbs. 

But I still find myself daydreaming about the farm house Sam found on Zillow. There was a feeling I got looking at the pictures. It was charming, homey, picturesque. A perfect place to raise a family. 

…Or a perfect target for predators. One of the two. 

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Until next week, 

Charlie