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I am, to my father’s horror and my bank account’s detriment, a city girl. I was voted Most Likely to Never Come Back as my senior superlative, and my classmates weren’t wrong; I was ready to get out of the suburbs of St. Louis, Missouri. For college applications, I set my sights on Chicago, Boston, or LA, and never looked back once I got a scholarship to a school in Los Angeles. My “element” is a rooftop bar, not a backyard baby shower.

But, my God, am I happy to come home to the suburbs, the land of infinite parking. I can’t wait to walk through a mall food court that’s bloated with caffeinated teens and chairs draped with puffer coats, or to browse Macy’s at my mom’s insistence because she has a 30% coupon she’s been saving for my arrival. I’m ready to see my high school best friend’s mom in the grocery aisle and hear about how their cat is getting surgery.

With that said, when I come home, it has to be a microdose. I can only take suburbia in small spurts. In spurts, it’s rejuvenating. It’s unmatched.