Musing in the 'burbs...

Looking out at the tarmac, I feel the tears welling in my eyes. No matter how many times I promise myself, it’s always the same.

One moment I am settling in my seat, checking to see I am buckled up, making sure to have enough reading materials in the mesh bag they always have- regardless of airline- in front of you, and then the next moment, the tears are forcing out of my eyes. Some uncontrollable force inside those tear sockets, as I call them since I’ve never been good at biology to name exact body parts, they have a thing about exerting their energy to push those tears out. I sense the energy behind my eyelids trying to push them back in, but they’re forceful. I know that. I just release the tears; let them slalom through my rounded cheeks. I feel the full heat from the release; I invisibly track the trace of the salty lines on my cheeks. As hot as they come out, the colder they get from the air pressure valves that are above my head in the overhead cabin. I reach slowly over to the rounded knob of the air vent, and turn it counter clockwise to shut it off. I always wonder why anyone would like forced air hit their face violently like that. It’s so uncool.

I push my head in the soft pillow of the seat. The coolness of the gray leather seatback touches the skin on the back of my neck, and I shift to cover my neck with enough of my hair to shield it from getting goose bumps. Although I usually love the contact of fresh, cool leather with my bare skin, this is not one of those times. I cringe at the thought of numerous human skins that made contact with the same seatback as I have. Pushing back these thoughts in a small, irrelevant compartment in my brain, I carve out a small indent, small enough to fit my head into the crook; I bury my head right into it. I notice that this particular seatback is not as worn, perhaps we’re on a newer plane, and I feel annoyed. This means a long flight of uneasy rest, constant shifting of my head to find the right spot to get some resemblance of sleep or rest.

I shift my body a little in my seat to accommodate my now twisted position, I think to myself if I’m going to have to leave this place with a major backache. I almost yearn for my bed, for my pillows. I think of those little kids who bring their pillow with them onboard, and for a second I envy them. That had never been my thing. And those neck pillows keep your head up so artificially that when you take them off, your head always bobbles like a newborn’s, the muscles forget their jobs, leaving you in a discombobulated state. And I don’t like that.

I settle in a spot that makes me semi-comfortable and I close my eyes. With the closing of my lids, the tears get an expected push down my cheeks. Not again. I try to make a picture of happy times, although this is one of them, and I cringe at the thought that I cannot visualize any. My eyes search through the images in my head, almost like going through an entire playlist to locate your favorite song. It’s frustrating. Almost involuntarily, I shake my head left and right, as if that’s going to be any help, to find that one comfortable moment of time that will help me dry up- or at least calm- my tears. I know it’s going to get worse. Just wait until the plane starts moving.

I focus on my breathing. One, two, three, exhale. One, two, three, exhale. I try to echo the words of the yoga instructor in my head- find you chi. I inhale once more, absorbing all the fake air into my lungs. The fakeness is unbearable, so unnatural. My nose twists, all crinkly and uncomfortable. There’s almost a metallic taste lining my mouth, I roll my tongue around my teeth, feeling the discomfort. This air is also surrounding my lungs, something that cannot be good for me or for anyone for that matter. I exhale quickly, now taking short breaths. I come back to the chi. I twist my stomach on the inside to feel the very tip of my ribs. I think they’re my ribs, I cannot tell. What I find there is not surprising. A sudden twinge of pain returns when I think of years of unforgotten unfairness, a deep desire to belong, and an even deeper yearning to be an unconditional part of something. Someplace. Someone.

Valentine's Day. Remembered.

Some time in late-1990s. Somewhere in New York. February 14.

I waited.

First came the bouquet of pink roses. Mom. Never missing an occasion, never hesitant to show her affection, she's always good like that. Then a medley of wildflowers. The ones my roommate and I sent to each other. In case we did not receive any. Followed by a dozen of white roses. Peace offering from an old boyfriend. Remembrance? Where's the rosemary, I'd like to ask. He's somewhere in the depths of Facebook.

I waited.

A bear with a bow-tie and box of chocolates. From "it's-never-going-to-happen-let's-stay-as-friends" guy. Good choice. Still very good friends.

I waited.

An email with an attachment. Very excited- maybe there's some surprise embedded in there, maybe an "I'm right around the corner, look out your window" kind? Maybe, an "I skipped school and drove all night just to see you" kind. I didn't (and still don't) think it was too much to ask.

So, I opened the email with the attachment. A clip art of roses.

Let me bring this in perspective: Year circa late-1990s, my old IBM Thinkpad, black & white monitor. I'm surrounded by a mini-garden in my bedroom, and staring at a black & white (funeral?) image of roses. One line of sentiments: "Happy Valentine's." That's it.

The end. To him. To long-distance relationships.

Who is behind Suddenly in the Burbs?

Esra is a self-proclaimed "city girl" with love of nature, "a go-to person" for restaurant recommendations, lover of anything "new and luxurious", and worshipper of "spas and all related pampering services." Brought up in cities around the world, she claims New York City home, one city where she lived the longest.

In 2002, she was uprooted from her airy Brooklyn Heights brownstone, and planted in a cozy suburban spot just outside of New York City. After many sleepless nights (more like months), she started appreciating all the new adventures her new surroundings offered her. Starting with early self-taught lessons like "How to get a spot at the Westchester on a weekend" to "Where can I find a spa that's not a nail salon", Esra began searching for the best in her new home.

Esra earned a Bachelor's degree in Business Management and Marketing from Cornell, and had a string of glamorous jobs in marketing and business development in New York City. She is currently a teacher, a calling that came later to her in life.

She founded Suddenly in the Burbs as a way to share her love of sharing the newest and the best she found locally. With a global mind and a local heart, Esra is looking forward your comments and feedback.