Little boxes

I work in Huntersville. It's about an hour from home. An entire world away from everything I've known.

I leave home. Drive down broken roads. Swerve to miss pot holes and roadkill. Marvel at God's creation that is the country. I pass several pastures filled with cows, bulls, horses, and goats. I slow. Annoyed with the tractor that's seen more of this day than I have. I cross paths with three white vehicles displaying pink John Deere license plates. I fall in line with older model vehicles. Some that are taking their last trip. Some that are older than I. Smokers litter the main road that takes you from back roads to the interstate that is i-85. Worried faces fly past me. Hard working, wrinkled hands throw a wave. It's front porches and glasses of sweet tea out here.

I greet the tractor trailers at the Pilot. All impatient wanting to get off the road. All reluctant to get the day started. And then? Swallowed by the south traveling drivers. We are the melting pot that connects my home to my work. A hodge podge of people. Driving.

I exit. Still familiar. I travel down subdivision lane. One. After. Another. And then? The greenhouses. And country. Comforting. Freeing. And then? More subdivisions. Here I am. Entering into a world that is only mine Monday through Friday. Nine in the morning to six in the evening. And even then? I don't fit in.

I trade in my tractors, farmland, cattle, pot holes, smokers, sweet tea and grace. Instead? Mercedes, Cannon School bumper stickers, bicyclists, Starbucks, Chanel sunglasses, and freshly shined shoes. I am in the world of soccer moms. Jealous? Just a little. Their appearance is everything I am not. Perfectly highlighted, blown out hair. Real pearl earrings. Slim, gym toned bodies. Manicured nails. Whitened teeth. Clean cars. Seemingly perfect lives. And these women? Most of these women? Having lunch dates. Talking about little Sophie's ballet recital. Little Aiden's awesome catch at his baseball game. Talking about Mary who was forced to go back to work because they over extended themselves with the new addition on the house. Mary who used to be with them at their lunch dates. They talk about who isn't holding up her end of the benefit committee. The same person that suggested they contribute 25k to her favorite charity. They talk about the maid that didn't make the bed correctly. And, wouldn't you know it? This ISN'T her first offense. Mundane talk. Soap opera talk. Sad talk. Jealous? A little.

Are they really happy? Can they be happy when all they are, at least all they seem to be, are play dates, little league baseball games, dance recitals, husband's work parties, benefit committees, spoiled rotten housewives?

I am jealous of the outward appearance. Of the endless amount of money. Of the fancy cars. Of the oblivion to the real world. The real world that exists outside of play dates, little league baseball games, dance recitals, husband's work parties, benefit committees, and 3500 square feet homes. I mock because I am jealous. The reality? Sophie's probably a grade behind in reading and Aiden is slightly cross-eyed. They envy Mary for having something to call her own- a career, an escape. They probably aren't holding up their end of the benefit committee either but feel it necessary to redirect the attention to someone else so no one will notice their lack of promised donations. The maid that didn't make the bed correctly is more upsetting because she's the most action that bed has seen in a while. Some life.

Now, before you get your panties in a twist, I am generalizing. But, I promise you. Come to the Starbucks on Gilead and Reese. Sit for half an hour. And you'll witness the same conversation I described above.

I like working in the city. I love living in the country. The hour drive? Doesn't bother me. I enjoy the transformation. From working class to upper class. From Carhardt and Levis to Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein. From John Deere tractors to FlexFuel Suburbans. From houses on acres of land to little boxes on the hillside.