Suburban Status Report 20230115

The suburbs are trying to kill me. To be fair, the feeling is mutual, but they aren’t even being subtle about it. First, a bit of back story. Despite having a well stocked kitchen, I like to walk out around noon a few times a week to pick up some lunch. This accomplishes two goals: a modicum of exercise and a meal I did not have to make myself. I must time this venture rather precisely, so I don’t end up in midst of the hormone-fueled hoards of high schoolers sprung from academia for their midday sustenance.

Another aside: why do secondary school kids cart around knapsacks as big as Everest expedition packs and why do they need to carry them out to lunch? Don’t they have lockers? And further, based on my rough calculations, they must spend a minimum of $20 a day on fast food, or about $400 a month. I know this because they leave a trail of detritus along the thoroughfare that leads from the main drag to the school. McDonald’s mega-sized cokes, pizza wrappings, sub trappings, and burger boxes. In their defense, there are no garbage cans along the way.

On a not too long ago but still pre-snow day, I went for a student-avoiding lazy lunch reconnaissance to Mr. Sub and got my usual small tuna on harvest wheat (no cheese, not toasted, green peppers, green olives, southwest sauce). I then headed back to the southeast corner of Yonge and Bristol, pressed the walk button and waited until the illuminated walking man told me I was cleared to start making the trek across the four lanes (plus two turn lanes). I was in the middle of the southbound side of the street when a big-ass pickup truck turning left came barreling towards me, the driver fervently concentrating on getting through the green light. For a moment I froze, then my lizard brain’s will to survive kicked in and I executed a frantic combination of a two-step and a 100 metre dash to get to the edge of the northbound lanes. That’s when I noticed the unmarked cop car that was stopped by the sidewalk. He turned on his siren, did a quick U-turn (barely missing me) and sped after the truck. I don’t know if justice prevailed or not, but I’m sure the other drivers stopped at the red enjoyed the entertainment.

The next week, on a Friday (seafood sub of the day, no cheese, not toasted, lettuce, green pepper, black olives, mayonnaise), I was once again at the southwest corner waiting to bring my lunch home. No trucks that day, just SUVs and minivans. Once again, I crossed with the walking man’s approval. Once again, I was almost mowed down. This time it was a hockey mom (maybe her name was Karen?). She piloted her Lexus through the lefthand turn, straight towards me. She made a token effort to avoid vehicular homicide, then gave a jaunty wave as if to thank me for yielding to the rightful superiority of the automobile.

From then on, I no longer try to avoid the high school hoards. Instead, I seek the safety of the pack, even if it means having to elbow them out of the way at the lunch venues. Thanks for that, Karen.