The New York Times is running a fabulous series on class in America. Earlier this week, they had an article on the ‘relo’ class- the new upper middle class that relocates every couple of years, hopping from planned community to planned community. I sat there with a growing sense of horror as something dawned on me. Part of the reason the place we live is so fucking bizarre to me is that we are literally on the edge of a relo area. Enormous developments of several hundred thousand dollar homes. Planned communities with the same strip malls with the same sets of stores mere miles apart. It’s a lifestyle so antithetical to my way of thinking, no wonder I cringe on a daily basis.
And yet, we also live in an established area. Our plumber’s been in business for 25 years. A 10 minute drive taking me in the opposite direction from the strip mall featuring smoothie king, a spa, a shitty art gallery, a dry cleaner’s, a faux italian place, a coffeehouse, and an orthodontist takes to to a strip mall area featuring a gem of a little French restaurant, the resale shop of the ladies auxiliary of the hospital, the kosher market, the Asian market (which damn, do I need to spend much more time in, sans kid. Because oh, oh hello giant sacks of frozen shu mai. Mmmmm) and ‘Locks and Pulls’, which specializes in everything I could possibly ever need for my cabinets or doors. I am certain all of these stores in the ‘100′ block area would not survive down at the 143 block area. The people who live there are relo’s- this is not how they think.
There are a bunch of relo fams at the daycare. They are easily identified- the same suv’s, the same national association stickers on their cars, the obvious spots where old ‘my child is an honor student at blah de blah’ have been peeled off and new, differently shaped stickers slapped on. The moms all have the same look about them- battle hardened, shellacked, in tennis togs or capris and perfect manicures. When they come in to pay for the next week, they pull their checkbook out of a meticulously organized dayplanner, color coded and cross-referenced. There’s another mom there who’s a doctor, and without fail when she comes in to pay the bill, she has to spend a good 5 minutes unloading pocket prescribing guidlines, blackberry, steth, tongue depressors, stickers, band-aids, and what have you out of her pockets to find her checkbook. She and I exchange weary smiles on a regular basis.
I was chatting with one of the relo moms the other day; she asked what our weekend plans were- they had soccer for the oldest, bible study, a balleet recital for the middle, and the youngest was starting ‘toddler gymnastics’. I looked at her and allowed as how I’d probably take Sean with me to the farmer’s market, and before I could get further, she interrupted. “Farmer’s market? Where?” “The one in old downtown, up at blah and blah”. She looked stunned. “You’d drive that far? For…vegetables?”
People, it’s 20 minutes from my house, tops.
And then she asked why Sean would possibly enjoy himself there. I should get him into gymnastics, he has so much energy. “My Gym is so convenient, you know. We make it a treat- that and then smoothie king.” I told her I loved my organic produce provider who sells wild strawberries, and Sean and I make a morning of that, thanks. She looked at me as though I was green and had three heads.
I know we’ll move away from here. One thing’s for sure. I am not fucking moving into a ‘relo’ area. Smoothie King be damned.
