I Moved Off-Grid To Be Interesting and Secretly Love the Suburbs

Going to the ends of the earth and edges of discomfort to ease the ego.

Photo by Nikola Knezevic on Unsplash

I have two odd but interrelated things to admit to today:

1. Although I left permanently two decades ago after years of complaining about them, I’m secretly a fan of the suburbs.

2. I’m living off-grid, in part, simply to be more interesting.

I’ve never admitted to either so directly, and it’s certainly a bit embarrassing to do it here in this little community of off-grid and generally nature and wildland-oriented type folks.

I’ve written elsewhere about the environmental benefits, the independence, the closer relationship with the elements and the self-reliance that comes with this lifestyle. All are very real parts of what makes living this way worthwhile, but it also makes for good stories. Interesting stories. The kind of stories I can tell that people will take an interest in and help temporarily meet my unending need for validation and acceptance.

Growing up in the suburbs I convinced myself, at least subconsciously, that I would find neither enough interesting stories nor validation or acceptance there.

And yet… I now get an inexplicable but predictably warm, fuzzy feeling driving by a big parking lot fronting a bunch of stores. I still admire a well manicured lawn, or the beckoning neon of a strip mall or a drive through fast food megachain. Outlet store? Not a chore.

I'll even take a joy ride through the concrete jungle of big box parking lots distorting and denuding the natural landscape when I have the opportunity. Ideally there's a nice park across the street with acres of Kentucky bluegrass mowed and watered to perfection, just the way a few hundred Canada Geese, easily nature's most obnoxious bird, prefer it for use as their personal feeding trough/toilet.

And man do I love a 7-11. So much so, that I had to check with professionals to make sure I didn't have a problem.

No matter how far I run from them in as many directions as gravity will allow, how much I mock, deride, lambast, roll my eyes or pretend to completely disavow them, I will forever be a child of the suburbs.

Of course, I didn’t feel this way in my youth when I actually lived there. Or at least I never allowed myself to consciously acknowledge it.

I thought a lot throughout my angsty adolescence about getting away from the suburbs. I complained pretentiously about their lack of character; the sprawling sameness; the disconnection from either excessive struggling or striving; the apparent settling.

Do you know how many Lakewoods there are in this nation? Would anyone be able to tell them apart? Do they have any woods remaining?

All of this judgment actually rooted in my own restlessness and dissatisfaction with myself, of course.

There is quite a bit to like about the suburbs, to be sure. The masses continue voting with their feet that the burbs are a pretty great place to live. Generally speaking, they are safe, they are simple, they seem to still function pretty well. They are comfortable, they are nice. They are home. A solid American baseline for a culture made up of disparate diasporas to start over from.

This is the point where you might expect me to have the all-too-obvious revelation that I’ve simply made a horrible mistake by ever leaving the suburbs. I’m out here on a sun-baked mesa digging holes, hauling water and making life harder than it needs to be all because I just want to be a little more interesting than where I came from.

There’s the unvarnished truth. Self-imposed exile to the road, the bush and now the off-grid mesa to avoid confronting the reality of one’s own forgettable averageness.

Maybe my enduring affinity and nostalgia for the burbs is me yearning for my more “authentic self” who wouldn’t mind more sidewalks, Starbucks and people who manage to be interesting without trying so fucking hard. I knew an awful lot of people like that growing up.

And yet… the stories I’ve collected and those I hear in exchange with neighbors out here. They’re pretty damn good. To mention nothing of the high desert air, night’s darkened dome, or the way sage seems to turn from dusty silver to its namesake green after just the slightest rain.

Forgive me, my beloved denizens of the world’s Lakewoods, Auroras, Elmhursts and countless others. You deserve someone less spoiled to chronicle your stories.

I’ll see you next time I need a break from being so damn interesting. A week of suburban comfort and safety and good feeling is usually enough for me to flee again and get back to digging holes.