In which I consider my impending breakup with the City of Chicago
He wants to live in the suburbs. I think I'd rather live in hell.
(Oh wait, I already do. Ha ha, that was another self-depricating Hyde Park joke.)
There are glaringly obvious practical reasons, and they boil down to Chicago being a wretchedly expensive city to reside in. His job is in the suburbs. My future job will probably be in the suburbs. And a reverse commute simply isn't worth it unless you have nice full-time white-collar gig to back it up, but I've given up hope of ever landing one of those again. Either the economy is still unfavorable, or I just suck at everything. I'm going to guess it's the latter, because it seems like every day I read more about how much better the economy is now than back when I still had that wonderful job I loved and was good at doing, before they laid us all off.
Well, in the meantime, I'm a freelance editor, and he builds tractors; we simply cannot afford to live here.
I'm coming to see the city as little more than a playground for ambitious urban professionals and talented members of the creative class (read: yuppies and hipsters). I can no longer pretend to be either of those, but I still hate the thought of leaving this place.
I don't want to be a "suburbanite." It represents a whole philosophy that I've spent my adult life opposing thus far.
But on the other hand, I suppose philosophy is also only for those who can afford it, too.