I spent the first half of my life living in the 'burbs. Subdivisions and garden apartment complexes, strip malls and big box stores; these were the navigation landmarks of youth. They have since grown stale.
In the years since then I have lived far enough out in the country to have a pistol range on the property and livestock in the neighborhood, as well as down in town where I could order Mexican food delivered at 3AM and walk to the nearest brewpub.
Both these latter lifestyles suit me fine. I've come to the conclusion that I'm going to be equally happy whether I can bicycle to the nearest Thai joint or sushi bar or, on the other hand, live far enough out in the sticks that I can shoot in my back yard. It's the boundary layer between those two states that holds no charms for me anymore.
But what I don't get are the people who have a virulent loathing for the 'burbs. The same Coexist-bumper-sticker-havin' Broad Ripple hippie who can be all live-and-let-live one minute can wind up with a Carmel delenda est rant that will make you think he wishes to sow the intersection of Main Street and Rangeline Road with salt.
There's a reason families wind up there, you know: Unlike the Big City, crime is low, and taxes are reasonable, and unlike the Distant Sticks, you don't have to drive ten miles to get diapers and Cap'n Crunch or to get the kid to school.