The Suburbs
In the blink of an eye, I went from living in the city that never sleeps to a suburb of Denver, caught in a web of cul de sacs and sidewalk alleys, stuck between townhouse villages mysteriously “protected by the covenant.” It only took a few days to learn we were outsiders; the neighbors were either our age with at least three kids or well into their retirement years. Many of them went to church together. When I somehow ended up on the neighborhood group text, young moms would ask who wanted to go to the zoo the next morning, did anyone have a certain toy for Roy’s play therapy, if anyone else was having trouble with CenturyLink?
The term grass is always green is the most annoyingly accurate cliche of all time. My years of complaining about New York City while living there transformed into an utter longing. Only in my suburb did I feel proud to be a “city girl,” to proudly tell Alfredo about my three-train commute and knowledge of exactly where to stand on the platform to get a swift exit up the station stairs. Only in my suburb did I talk about the 50¢ dumplings in Chinatown, or the low-lit jazz bars in the West Village, the above-ground gardens and open-air markets, and the best pasta I’ve ever eaten in the tiny restaurant that never takes reservations.
In the suburbs, walking to places feels wrong, even if there are sidewalks — even if it’s the same distance as the walk to my favorite coffee shop in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Something about a sidewalk on a busy street in a suburb feels wildly different than a sidewalk alongside 5th avenue, one of the busiest roads in Manhattan. Why walk when you can drive?
In our suburb, I first resisted the idea of driving to the grocery store. I’d bike the 2.3 miles to Natural Grocers, shoving delicate herbs and 28 oz cans of whole peeled tomatoes in my backpack. The rest of the groceries — the onions, orzo, vegan creamer, cocoa powder — would go in reusable bags on each handlebar. The bags would constantly swing into my front tire on the ride home, slicing open the totes while I meandered off curbs.
Yet, I will say this. There is an advantage to the suburbs, and that is having a bit more space. I went back to my journal recently and found an entry that begins, “Out my window I see something I can’t believe: quiet.”
-- A snapshot of the suburbs
Living in the suburbs is a good idea if you’re not scared of the deep, night-time silence, or the fact that 97% of your neighbors host bible studies. Unfortunately, both of those things, for me at least, create some pause.
When we moved in, there were two giant American flags left from the previous owners. In “Trump’s America,” the flag of our country always left me feeling a little unsettled, like it no longer translated to a place where men and women are created equal. My husband, an immigrant, didn’t see anything wrong with the flags, which he simply saw as a representation of our country, a land of opportunities. We’re both not wrong. But I still didn’t want them waving.
For the first time in my life, I had a washer, dryer, and dishwasher in my home. I was so excited to use them that washing dishes and dress shirts became my new hobby. As did the daily sweeping of dog and cat hair, windexing the glass backdoor and mirrors to get rid of the human finger and dog nose prints, scrubbing coffee stains off the once-was white sink.
Because we purchased more square feet than we knew what to do with (around 2,000), somehow our amount of possessions 4 x’d in a short period of time. The two-car garage and multiple closets were empty, and as some law of science goes, had to be filled. We bought tables, dressers, and couches off of Craigslist. Boxes and camp gear and random belongings from old storage spaces were now in our spaces. Our joint collection of bowls and spoons and three (yes, three) french presses got crammed into cabinets. Half-empty bottles of liquor were displayed on new shelves. Somehow, belongings that were never in our old studio apartment appeared: Mysterious garage tools and dog toys and old pillows and blankets, paintings and tortilla baskets and laundry baskets and bins and bins of chords and batteries and pens.
-- Back to NYC
When I moved to Colorado as a single woman, I was curious about what the dating scene would be like after a disheartening, sometimes hilarious, most times exhausting five years of romantic pursuits in New York. I was tired of Tuesday evening dates, meeting at some sticky bar between my Brooklyn apartment and his Manhattan flat, drinking three too many gin and tonics when I knew within 30 seconds of meeting said person it wasn’t going to work. I went on brunch dates, hot sauce festival dates, the ever-boring tea date, and even a date to the Applebees in Times Square, using an about-to-expire gift certificate from his aunt.
There was also the one and only running date I went on, which sticks out to me since it felt like an anomaly for New York City. His name was Anish. I boldly met him for the first time at this apartment in the West Village and immediately knew he had money: the apartment was two stories with a narrow, spiraling staircase between floors. He lived alone. I awkwardly changed into my running clothes in the guest bath while he did the same in the bedroom, and then we went on a run, heading south, towards Battery Park.
Anish was fast. Not one to ever ask someone to slow down, I locked into a heart-squeezing pace while also telling him about my job (which in and of itself was hard enough to explain at a resting heart rate). I ran my fastest 10K ever on that run date, never letting him know how hard it actually was to keep up, never explaining why I kept asking him questions that forced long answers so I could have a chance to breathe, like, “can you explain to me how banking works?”
We got dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant after the run. When the hot, fluffy beds of fresh pita were placed on our table he shook his head profusely, announcing, “oh no no no, I don’t eat carbs.” Then he ordered a vodka soda.
After learning Anish loved two things — his finance job and maintaining six-pack abs — I never saw him again.
-- Move to CO
When I moved to Boulder, I primarily used dating as a way to learn about the small city. No, really — I knew nobody, and it was nice to be taken to different restaurants and bars and to learn about the town trail systems and the must-visit places throughout the rest of the state.
Less surprisingly for Boulder, my first date was a hike. We met at Chautauqua State Park for what I thought would be an easy stroll around the rolling foothills. Josh, as it turns out, was an ultrarunner (the 100-miler kind) and had run to the trailhead from his house to meet me. He had -10% body fat, hair longer than mine, and an aversion for deodorant. He took me up Green Mountain, a 2.5-mile ascent that covers 2,500 ft of elevation gain. While I struggled in the thin air to keep up at a snail's pace, he replied, “I usually run up this!” I survived the hike and gave him a parting hug while I searched for my inhales. Once I let go, I watched him gallop like an antelope towards another trail. When I arrived home it wasn’t even 10 am, and I thought to myself: “It’s 9:30 on Sunday morning and I’ve already climbed a mountain.”
I met my now-husband two months later. On a random snowy evening, I agreed to drive an acquaintance to an evening running group. The trails were full of ice and snow; it was the first time I had ventured through the woods like that in dark. The small group of us went to a brewery afterward, which is where I met Alfredo, who was invited to join for beers by the guy who was leading the group run.
All of us runners, plus Alfredo, circled around a single table. Alfredo and I were directly seated across from one another. We chatted for at least an hour and his calming presence, dark eyes, and inquisitive nature piqued my interest. We didn’t exchange numbers, but I went to bed that night thinking about him.
Fast forward two months and Alfredo popped up on Bumble. Nine months later I moved in with him, and seven months after that we were married.
-- Our first year of dating
The first handful of months dating Alfredo was incredible. I was also still adjusting to Boulder being my home, and not just a very long vacation, and couldn’t believe that I was surrounded by incredible mountains everywhere I looked. We religiously followed “trail and taco Tuesday,” where we would run up Green Mountain (yes, the place I went on that first date) and come home to cook tacos and drink mezcal. We went on day trips to the mountains, which quickly turned into weekend camping trips. In May, three months after our first date, we traveled to Moab for the weekend to camp in the desert quiet. That’s where I fell in love with him.
The following month, Alfredo came with me to New York for a friend’s wedding. He had never been to the city and I was excited to show him my former home. At first, he seemed partially enthralled that New York City was where I was from; he had grown up in the opposite way: a beach town on the Pacific Coast of Mexico.
It poured the whole time we were there. The city I wanted to show him was seen under the lips of umbrellas. We traveled back in December to spend Christmas with my family and were met with an infamous cold front. The city was barely existing in single digits and Alfredo — who was a lover of the ocean, of wide-open spaces, of clear air — decided he wasn’t impressed with New York.
-- Buying the house
The following spring, Alfredo got his dream job. I knew the office wasn’t in Boulder, but it took me a few moments to realize it wasn’t a feasible commute. We had to move.
Having dated for a year, our relationship was at a crossroads. I loved Boulder. I had spent my time developing a group of friends, finding my yoga studio, my writing studio, my coffee shop, and my favorite running trails. I wasn’t ready to leave.
But Alfredo was, and I loved him. We decided to try and find a place to rent in a nearby town, Golden, which was essentially the midway point between Boulder and his office. It still didn’t “feel the same” - I wanted to be able to hop on my bike and get to any of Boulder’s establishments, but I was also mature enough to know that relationships meant compromise. And it was his dream job. And, if circumstances were switched, he would do the same.
Instead of looking for rentals, we started scanning Zillow for sales. We knew our combined income couldn’t purchase us a home in Boulder, let alone Golden, so we started looking a bit further south, towards Alfredo’s new job, in a few suburbs west of Denver. I had never been to these places, but on the map, they bordered foothills and led straight to the veins of major highways that could sweep us up to the mountains.
After filling out a simple Zillow contact form on a house we liked, thinking our naive inquiry would float off into the internet abyss, a real estate agent called me the next day. The day after, we were sitting at his office in the Denver Tech Center.
Real estate agents are very good at their job. We told them all of the must-haves — nothing over $450K, single-family home, garage, yard, near a bike path, at least two bathrooms. “Your dream home is very feasible,” he told us. “Let’s look at some houses this weekend.”
We went under contract five days later.
-- The house
The house is special and nothing special. It isn’t the creaky floored rustic home I’d imagined since a kid, with long-cut rugs the color of a muted rainbow, mismatched candlesticks in simple ceramic holders, pots and pans hanging off hooks.
No, it is a 1970s ranch with one floor and a finished basement. There are two bedrooms upstairs and two downstairs; two full bathrooms, a kitchen, and a living room. To Alfredo’s longing, the house comes with a two and a half car garage (I didn’t know cars came in halves) and a fenced backyard. It’s a 10-minute drive to the foothills, well within our price range, and in good condition.
And a great investment, no doubt. Close to the mountains, amazing! A short commute for Alfredo, and only 20 minutes to Denver for me! The end of the cul-de-sac leads to a small trail that opens up into a giant, lovely-looking field. The first day we moved in, I followed the skinny, overgrown trail that cut through the field and learned it opened up to Bear Creek Trail, a paved and dirt path that, if you go east, leads to Denver, and west, to Bear Creek Lake Park.
Nothing in our house matches, which I’m still trying to convince myself is “our style.” We kept most of the old paint as it was: weird yet endearing southwest shades of rust and gold. On the wall that divides the kitchen and living room, there are penciled-in height measurements from the old family who used to live here, tiny faded dashes that tick up towards the ceiling.
In our backyard, three big pine trees dramatically affect our mental health. They provide enough shade to keep us cool in the summer, yet the pine needles that fall and the baby pine cones snatched from squirrels has us in a never-ending cycle of back bending yard work. While shoving needles into an old tin can one morning, I glanced at our neighbors' yard with the fancy pond and giant sandbox for their 87-year-old turtle, Franklin. I bent down and carried more pine needles into my chest. I stared at the lawn that we desperately managed to keep green, then looked over to the indent in the middle of the lawn from the previous owners above ground pool. What to do with it? I voted hot tub. Alfredo voted garden. To date, we’ve done nothing.
I say the house is special because it’s our first home. I’ve wanted to buy a home ever since I realized I was little, ever since I became fascinated with the idea of having my own space. My childhood was fine, but I always had an itching, a longing, to get on with things. When I lived in New York City, I moved into a new apartment every year, rarely resigning a lease. Buying something of my own, especially in a city like New York, was an alien, unheard of concept, and so I craved it. It meant independence. It meant I could do it and I did it. It meant I was finally an adult.
Now I realize buying a house isn’t all that special. It simply means that most of your cash, the money you’ve spent decades earning and holding onto, is thrust out of your Savings in a quick wire transfer and disappears. Sure, it’s “in” the house somewhere, but I felt empty having a near-barren bank account and a used home. The sinks were not quite clean and there were old curtains and picture frames left behind. While I happily accepted the box of Ziplocs and roll of aluminum found in the back of a kitchen cabinet, I didn’t need little Kevin’s baseball team’s picture hung up in our laundry room or the short, ruffled maroon curtains in the bathroom.
-- Living in the house
Alfredo and I got engaged soon after closing on the home. While we didn’t think much of our relationship status, we received a handful of raised eyebrows when announcing we bought a home together as boyfriend and girlfriend. Even my dad, who loves Alfredo, asked me straight up: “I just want to make sure he’s not going to leave you and take half the assets.”
I never wanted a wedding, and Alfredo seemed perfectly pleased with that arrangement. We had a date at the courthouse for a few weeks after we moved into our home. Engagement, house, marriage, moving — bam. We packed it all in a few short months.
Maybe that’s why the transition to a new life was hard. How could it not? While I was over the moon ecstatic when we went under contract, I think the thrill was more that we had gotten the deal. The seller chose us. I hadn’t thought much about what our lives would turn into.
Leaving friends in Boulder, a city I knew well, was one thing. But leaving the small daily things that webbed our relationship together was harder, and more unexpected. I quickly missed the two-mile bike ride along the path I would take to my co-working space, the daily happy hour at the fancy French restaurant that had $1 oysters and $5 gin martinis, the trail across the street that led to the 2nd flatiron, the dirt reservoir where I’d run around with Luna, letting her swim at the neighboring creek. I longed for the various restaurants and their manhattans and the three-story bookstore I’d get lost in for hours. We fell in love on these trails and at these bars and on those bike paths against the flatirons. It wasn’t until I left did I realize I wasn’t ready to leave. It wasn’t until I left did I long for my old homes.
We lived together before the house but had never shared so many square feet together — something we both owned. We quickly learned we each had a different approach to how to take care of things. I kept things clean — sweeping dog fur and washing windows, removing piles of clutter that showed up out of nowhere. Alfredo wanted to keep things from breaking. His mind as a mechanical engineer was wired to use things in a certain way that would reduce the risk of replacing washing machines or hardwood floors. While both approaches seem reasonable, some of our biggest arguments were born from this.
Case in point: One day, maybe a week into living in the house, Alfredo announced we shouldn’t use our garage door as a door. What he meant by this is we should only open it if we absolutely have to, otherwise it’s numerous ups and downs over the years would pile up quickly and break the thing before its time was truly up. My thinking was: why bring keys when we go out? Why not just go through the garage door and enter the house through there? I had grown up with that method; “just go through the garage.”
I humored Alfredo for a bit on this, leaving for neighborhood runs and bringing the house key with me, or sticking it under a flowerpot. It wasn’t a big deal. But one day — his birthday, rather — I went on a run and went out through the garage, not thinking much of it. I closed the door behind me and when I came back, things seemed perfectly normal. The door opened back up to let me in, but the problem soon followed: the door wouldn’t shut. I saw a string hanging from the ceiling so I pulled it down manually.
Later that evening I surprised Alfredo for his birthday with a dinner reservation at a neighboring town we could bike to. We got our bikes ready in the garage, and when he went to open up the door (which, let me just say, why is it okay to use the door at this moment?) he noticed the door had gotten stuck. I was caught red-handed.
And so our first fight in the new house unfurled. I might have miscalculated his response, but he kept asking me “why did you use the door?” “Why did you need to use the door?” “Why didn’t you just hide a key and go out the front”? In his mind, he was genuinely asking because he wants to understand, while I saw it as condescending. “Why do I need to explain myself?” “I just did it.” “The damn thing has the word ‘door’ in its name and I used it as such.”
Most of our arguments revolve around this sentiment: how things should be used, how they should be cared for. While Alfredo doesn’t seem to mind placing dirty socks on our coffee table (we eat there), I lose a point for letting the toilet run 30 seconds too long. I use small, sharp knives on soft pieces of quick bread, dulling the blade, while Alfredo keeps all of his clean, folded clothes on top of his dresser as if the shelves are locked shut.
A podcast I listen to with banter from a married couple revealed my most powerful insight to date; she says, “love and relationship is a willingness to be inefficient and maybe even inconvenienced by someone else. To be in relationship is to be just that: in relationship.”
I made Alfredo listen to that part of the show while driving back from Home Depot, our truck filled with wood beams for a new fence and small hooks to hang jackets.
-- Conclude
In the two years since moving, we’ve settled into a life that feels like ours. Not perfect, not always satisfying, but ours. We’re still searching for our next home, our dream home — the place we want to live that checks all the boxes we didn’t know existed. Can we own more land but still be close to a bookstore and bar? Can we be secluded but near culture, have a small house but a large garage, big windows but total privacy? Can there be a gas stove, and wood floors, and sun that hits just right?
And — does this dream home become the big thing we need to be in the best partnership possible? Does such a place exist? Does it have the power to strengthen our bond?
Weekends, when we both are able to sleep in, are few and far between. I’m usually getting up for a long run, Alfredo a bike ride. Or, I simply like to sleep longer, and Alf will wake up and his mind will start racing, thinking about something on his to-do list: a project in the garage or in the bathroom. A gasket needs changing on a vehicle; a bike needs new handlebars. The pine needles covering the yard need to be bagged before the September snow.
But there are times when, if we’re both lucky, we sleep in together. Alfredo usually hears that I’m awake and crawls over to my side of the bed, fumbling his way under my set of blanket, and pulls my warm, boned body into his chest, into his hips. He spoons me and I feel his heartbeat thump against my thoracic spine. I try to match my inhales and exhales with his, I try to feel what it’s like to breathe deeply as he does. My breaths aren’t usually as long, but they are slower. For a moment, though, we match up, our lungs as one. And maybe, for now, this is our home.
