Where Even Sacramentans Refuse to Tread
To us, moving to Roseville isn’t really that much of a shift from where we are. It’s suburbia through and through, but for us, when it comes to choosing between Roseville and Sacramento, it’s six of one. (More to the point, it’s all NorCal.) To hear Sacramentans talk about it, though, you’d think we were moving from a brownstone on the Upper West Side to an apartment complex next to The Outlets in Vacaville.
“Roseville?” said our downstairs neighbor when we told her we were moving. “The suburbs?” She gave us a confused, pitying look while nodding and pretending to go along with our reasoning (reasoning that consists of two things: big, cheap house and baby on the way).
“You’re moving to Roseville?” said another of our neighbors. “We’re having a baby,” we reminded her. “We need space.” “Well, that's going to be...a change,” she said.
Yesterday, at the eye doctor, I mentioned our move, and the doctor pushed his rolling chair back in undisguised horror. “Roseville? The suburbs? You’re going to hate it there!” he said bluntly. I know we are, I said. I know. But we found a big house. We’re having a baby. And did I mention the redwoods in the yard, and the central AC?
So it seems we’re heading off to the no-man’s-land of no-man’s-land, the place at which even Sacramentans turn up their noses. But I’m having a hard time taking this too much to heart. It’s the right decision for us, for now, and, more importantly, it’s not forever. What none of these people realize is that no matter where we are out here, whether it’s P Street or Roseville or where-the-hell-ever, our eye remains firmly fixed on the prize: the day when we load up our Volvo with our baby, the satisfaction of our low-cost-of-living savings, and what remains of our belongings and drive away at top speed, cheering and crying with joy, without looking back.
Until that day, we might as well have space to breathe in. We might as well have redwoods in the yard.
“Roseville?” said our downstairs neighbor when we told her we were moving. “The suburbs?” She gave us a confused, pitying look while nodding and pretending to go along with our reasoning (reasoning that consists of two things: big, cheap house and baby on the way).
“You’re moving to Roseville?” said another of our neighbors. “We’re having a baby,” we reminded her. “We need space.” “Well, that's going to be...a change,” she said.
Yesterday, at the eye doctor, I mentioned our move, and the doctor pushed his rolling chair back in undisguised horror. “Roseville? The suburbs? You’re going to hate it there!” he said bluntly. I know we are, I said. I know. But we found a big house. We’re having a baby. And did I mention the redwoods in the yard, and the central AC?
So it seems we’re heading off to the no-man’s-land of no-man’s-land, the place at which even Sacramentans turn up their noses. But I’m having a hard time taking this too much to heart. It’s the right decision for us, for now, and, more importantly, it’s not forever. What none of these people realize is that no matter where we are out here, whether it’s P Street or Roseville or where-the-hell-ever, our eye remains firmly fixed on the prize: the day when we load up our Volvo with our baby, the satisfaction of our low-cost-of-living savings, and what remains of our belongings and drive away at top speed, cheering and crying with joy, without looking back.
Until that day, we might as well have space to breathe in. We might as well have redwoods in the yard.
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